


Flight of the Chalcis

by Atypical16



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: Abuse, Ancient Greece, Based on an obscure myth, Coming of Age, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Manipulation, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Father/Daughter Incest, Growth, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Instability, Obsessive Behavior, POV Multiple, Power Imbalance, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2019-09-18 04:46:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 13
Words: 46,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16988298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atypical16/pseuds/Atypical16
Summary: The kingdom of Arcadia is known as the most idyllic of Greece, but King Clymenus harbors a disturbing secret that will rip apart his family and threaten his rule.





	1. I

_For a time he held out and had the mastery of his passion; but it came over him again with increased force, and he then acquainted the girl of his feelings through her nurse, and consorted with her secretly._

Parthenius, _Erotica Pathemata_  

▵ ▵ ▵ ▵ ▵ 

Clymenus was the last to arrive at the table. Like any normal man, he usually didn’t dine with his family, but he was getting sick of his lounge. Once he was seated, they began to eat.

Next to him sat Epicaste, his wife, looking miserable without her sycophantic cohort of ladies. She didn’t spare her husband the briefest glance, but he was used to that by now. Many times he’d watched her silhouette, her profile, the back of her curly-haired head, hoping for some type of mere acknowledgement. Now he’d given up, only casting his eyes over her once.

Across the table sat two of this three children. The eldest, Therager, considered one of the strongest and most handsome in all of Arcadia, was not present. He lived in Argos, having married a maiden who grew up there. His youngest son, Idas, was the opposite of Therager in almost every way despite facial resemblance—weak-willed, scrawny, and asocial.

Luckily, his daughter, Harpalyke, compensated for the defect in progeny. She wasn’t very social either, and she tended to throw fits, but she was beautiful, docile. Oftentimes, like right now, Clymenus found himself simply watching her, entranced. Usually no one noticed, least of all Epicaste, but tonight was an exception.

Her cold, dark eyes followed his gaze before she blotted her mouth with cloth and spoke. “I think, Clymenus, it’s time we inform Neleus of Pylos that Harpalyke is ready to marry his son, if he is still so inclined to take her.”

Their daughter’s face went white, her eyes widening for a moment. Clymenus had a similar reaction but internally, betraying nothing as he replied, “Perhaps.” 

Though Epicaste was unconcerned with their plight, she was sharp enough to pick up on it. “She is nearing 16, Clymenus. That’s more than old enough. In fact, we should have given her to Alastor as soon as they were betrothed.”

That had been three years ago, easier to argue that Harpalyke was an immature 13 years old, ill-prepared for marriage. “We’re not peasants,” was his argument. “We haven’t got to rush—her dowry is not leaving anytime soon.” He’d been right: the livestock was as abundant and healthy as ever.

Whether Epicaste accepted the argument was irrelevant; her opinion held no weight in the decisions of the king. However, the king had to make logical decisions, and there was no logic in keeping a daughter approaching her 16th year at home when she’d been promised to a prosperous ally of the Arcadian kingdom.

“I will make the trip to Pylos,” he finally declared.

Together, the kingdoms of Arcadia and Pylos would be stronger than on their own. Neleus and Clymenus had agreed long ago that a union of their kin would only be beneficial. Then what was the problem? Why did the task of preparing for a journey to Pylos fill him with such dread?

They finished their meal in silence. Harpalyke kept her head down, shoulders slumped. As soon as Idas swallowed his last bite, he asked to go play in the fields. 

“Your mother shall decide,” Clymenus told him as he stood, ready to leave.

He looked hopefully at Epicaste, who murmured a vague assent.

“May I go, too?” his sister asked.

“No, I don’t want to go with her,” Idas whined at once, setting his father on edge. The boy was 13; surely, he ought to have a man’s voice by now?

“I can go by myself,” Harpalyke suggested.

“Absolutely not,” her parents chorused, causing her to pout, dark eyes narrowed. 

“Idas, take your sister,” the king ordered over his shoulder.

Thankfully, that shut him up. One by one, they left the courtyard, the children to the field, Epicaste somewhere upstairs, and Clymenus to the kitchen for some absinthe. Holding a cupful, he retreated to his lounge. No visitors today, just him and the vast view of the fields and mountains beyond. A week prior, Epicaste’s parents had visited and the entire ordeal was exhausting, to put it nicely. It was clear where Epicaste’s constant bad mood came from.

Now, alone with absinthe in hand, he could finally think straight. As soon as he took a seat on the throne, his stomach started burning again. His current task was to plan a trip to King Neleus to let him know Harpalyke was ready for his son. Easy enough—the horses and chariot were in good shape. The storms had passed; the air was calm and free of dust. Why the unsettlement?

His instinct was telling him he was not ready to give her up, but she would be 16 within the next year. It was past time for her to grow up. 

Clymenus drained his cup and looked around for the slave, but he was not in the room. Not a problem, since he liked to fetch the absinthe himself. It was Epicaste who had grown up with slaves, not he, so they were more of a hindrance to him than help. 

After a few more trips to the kitchen—the last in a slight haze—his mind was ready to bring up his demon despite his attempts to suppress it. Gods, why? Absinthe usually blurred it out, but every so often, when he was particularly stressed, it burst out of its cage and took over. He stood near one of the large pillars, looking out into the gardens.

He always had a soft spot for his daughter, no doubt. Which father wouldn’t? So sweet she was, smiling shyly at him whenever they occupied the same space, peeking at him under those heavy eyelids and long lashes. When she was small, he used to hold her on his lap, her arms around his neck, and tell her all the stories of the gods.

With fondness, Clymenus recalled the last time he’d gotten her on his lap. It was about a year ago. She’d been crying for one reason or another; no one bothered to keep up with her sagas. He’d wiped her plump cheeks and she’d buried her face into his neck. When she pulled back, her face was inches away, teardrops dotting her eyelashes.

Something had awakened in him then, a type of love for her very different from years past. He’d leaned in and kissed her, closing his eyes and relishing her heart-shaped mouth against his. Afterwards she smiled and said, “I feel better, Daddy.”

He pictured her now, pale and voluptuous, long, wavy hair hugging her shoulders and curvy upper arms. She’d gone from girl to woman seemingly overnight, and Clymenus was having trouble sorting out his feelings about it. Or, more accurately, suppressing his thoughts about her.

He raised his cup to his lips and was surprised to find it empty. Peering into it, he shook his head. Harpalyke was his daughter and nothing more. He had to stop giving her so much attention. “It isn’t normal,” Epicaste remarked once. That woman had a way of digging into his skin.

His stomach gave a twinge, but a nice full gulp of absinthe settled it down. After all, he realized, he didn’t have to run off to Pylos right away. He had over a season to make the journey.

*

Idas stalked through the fields, hands balled into fists. Way up ahead, the sun began to sink behind the mountains. Next to him, Harpalyke was trying to match his pace but of course couldn’t because she only sat on her bottom and played with dolls. She even had one now cradled in her arms. Aggravated that he had to take her, he began to needle her. “Aren’t you too old for that rag? Which other 15-year-old do you know who carries a damn doll around?”

“Shut up,” she snapped predictably. “You’re just bitter Daddy loves me more.” 

“Yes, because I don’t crawl on my hands and knees after him like a dog,” he shot back. “And anyway, Mother likes me well enough. It’s you she can’t stand, which is why she’s desperate to send you to Pylos. Though I bet the king there will take one look at you and decide you’re not suitable for his lamest son.”

“Speaking of lamest sons…”

They bickered until they got about halfway through the field when Harpalyke sat down and declared she needed a break.

“What you need is a diet,” Idas told her before dashing off, chuckling to himself. Free at last—his leg muscles stretched, loosening the tension from his body. He hated being home, especially when his father was around. That had hopefully been the last meal the king would join for a while.

None of that mattered outside the house, for Idas was free to roam. He ran all the way to the edge of the field, the heat of the afternoon scorching his cheeks. Once he reached the stream extending from the Alpheios, he splashed his face with cool water, his rear sinking into the mud.

Chest heaving, Idas remained by the stream for a few moments before standing and following it east to a large boulder. If he stood upon it at his tallest, he could see past his house and the gathering of the village situated next to Mt. Nomia and the shrine of Artemis. Had his father not been home, he could’ve gone to the village and maybe run into one of the boys nearby. Those boys were rough-speaking, from smaller houses and poorer families, but Idas overlooked that.

But now because of his stupid sister, he’d be lucky if he had time to climb atop the boulder. The sun was slipping under Mt. Cyllene, dimming the air to a deep orange. His hour was racing away. Determined to capture at least a second standing tall, Idas hauled himself up and looked over the field. A far-away flash of white caught his eye: his sister was twirling around in the raspberry field.

Idas turned away and strained to see if anything was going on in the village. All was still except for a mule and carriage arriving at a house nearly covered in overgrown brush.

The sun was now behind the mountains, casting the entire valley in shadow. Time to go, the hour was nearly up. Only felt about fifteen minutes, he noted with annoyance. He trotted through the raspberry fields, but Harpalyke wasn’t there.

Idas sighed and slowed his pace, dreading the task of shepherding his sister inside, since she always cried and protested as if _he_ had the power to slow Apollo down. She really is dumb, he thought irritably, stomping into the dirt as he marched through rows of green.

Soon the ire turned into panic as the deep blue of night pushed the light behind the mountains. It was burnt orange now, muting all surroundings. He tripped on something and stumbled. Picking it up, he recognized it as Harpalyke’s doll.

This sent him hurtling into the next row through stiff twigs digging into his arms. Frantically, he looked around and saw a pale figure further up the row, slumped on the ground. _Oh, great_. Heart clawing through his chest, Idas bolted straight at it.

As he suspected, it was Harpalyke lying limp, eyes closed. Scratches lined her arms, twigs twisted in her hair; like him, she’d been bursting through the plants in panic. “Harpalyke,” he called loudly, slapping her cheeks. “Wake up.”

She didn’t wake, but he hadn’t been expecting her to. Right away, he’d known what was wrong: a headache had befallen her, and her type of headache was unusually strong. They hadn’t believed the severity at first, since she was a fan of melodrama, but after falling into such a deep sleep and waking up screaming and vomiting, she had them all convinced. 

And now Idas had to get her onto the bed with a cold cloth without his parents or any of the slaves seeing. That was surely impossible, but he had to try. The threat of a flogging from his father left him no choice.

He stood frozen in terror for a moment, but then his mind began to plan the fastest route. The problem was that Harpalyke was _heavy_ , and the house was still a long way off.

Idas tried holding her around the waist, but her hair was sliding everywhere, loosening his grip. Soon he had no choice but to heave her over his shoulder. Boy was he fat; she needed to lay off the milk. Bathed in sweat, Idas hauled her through the remainder of the field. _Weak, pathetic_ , his father’s voice chided in his ear, but Idas bared his teeth and kept going. 

After an eternity, he reached the back entrance to the courtyard, where his mother, a neighbor’s wife, Eumene, and one of the slaves sat near the hearth. At last he was able to shed the dead weight, catching her head just before it slammed against the ground.

At once, a herd of female feet in various levels of cleanliness surrounded them. Epicaste snatched his shoulder and jerked him upright. “What happened?”

“She-she was just lying there.” He was embarrassed of how out of breath he was. “I think she’s afflicted with that headache.”

His mother nodded, stepping back and snapping her fingers. “Take her to her bed and press her with a cool cloth.”

The slaves lifted her and carried her away while Eumene took a seat back by the hearth. Mother and son stood watching them gently haul the girl upstairs. “Thank the gods your father is in his lounge,” she muttered, though it was more to herself. “This is why she’s not to go outside.”

Idas turned to her, swallowing a ball of fear. “Must he know?”

Epicaste appraised him with her dark eyes. She, like he, was tall and willowy, which had the unfortunate side effect of hollow cheeks on an otherwise pretty face. They even had the same fine, curly hair. “I’ll tell him she fell here before me. Eumene will agree.”

He nodded gratefully and headed for the main entrance to catch a glimpse at the last vestiges of the sunset. Creeping past the lounge so his father wouldn’t hear him, he couldn’t help peering through the archway as he passed. Clymenus stood with his back to him, a black silhouette against the fading light.

*

It was happening again; she could feel it. The brightness of the sun even though it was about to set, the earth rough beneath her feet, tiny white sparks in her peripheral vision—the headache was coming. Harpalyke had to get to the well and fast. Snatching up Stateira III—Stateira I had disintegrated and II left in Argos—she stood, looking around for her brother.

This turned out to be a mistake. The slight change in altitude sucked the air out of her head, replacing it with a shrill ringing in her ears. “Idas!” she called, stumbling into a brush. Her voice came out weak or perhaps it seemed that way through the incessant ringing.

The white sparks were taking over, a dull ache starting behind her right brow bone. Forget Idas; she had to get home. She did not wish to get him in trouble despite his rudeness, but she didn’t want the blackness to come, either.

The house wasn’t too far. She had to cut through the brush to the next row, which was a straight path home. Abandoning Stateira III and covering her face, Harpalyke dove head-first through the shrub. It clung to her as she landed on the dirt. Just as she was about to heave herself up, the white overtook her vision, the pain ballooning in the right half of her skull. Pressing her fingertips into her eyelids, she sank to her knees, tendrils of her hair captured by twigs suspended above her. 

“No, please make it stop,” she whimpered, curling into fetal position. Her forehead met the dirt, her hair sliding through the twigs or grabbing hold of them and snapping them off. By that time the pain was so strong, sinking into darkness was the only relief.

When her eyelids creaked open again, Harpalyke found herself still wrapped in darkness, though she was aware of her bedsheet underneath her sweat-soaked body. Her stomach lurched, the pain in her head hovering insidiously behind her eye. Somewhere yonder, harsh voices floated in through the archway to her room.

 “…could you be so callous? Why is the slave taking care of her all the time?" 

“She’s 15 years old, Clymenus. It’s not our duty to treat her as if she’s made of porcelain.” Epicaste paused before adding, “Nor is it Idas.’”

“He left her alone, didn’t he?”

“For heaven’s _sake._ If she doesn’t toughen up, Neleus will send her straight back here. Though I suspect you’d love that—” Her words were cut off by her own yelp and a loud smack.

“This conversation is over,” her father’s cold voice said as his footsteps stomped away.

“Make it stop,” Harpalyke whispered, her stomach churning. She sat up just as a foul, burning liquid spewed out of her mouth, soaking her bedsheet. She sputtered, choking and crying, as the pain came back full-force.

“Oh, gods!” she cried, chest heaving.

A basket was thrust into her lap, but she was done for now, or so she desperately hoped. A cool brushed back the hair stuck to her face as she reclined. For one absurd second, Harpalyke thought it belonged to her mother, but her mother hadn’t touched her kindly, she suspected, since she’d been born.

Though the smallest movement hurt, she turned and found herself face-to-face with one of the slaves, the dark one. Her leathered face was visible only for a moment before everything was blurred by piercing pain.

“Please make it stop,” Harpalyke begged. She knew the slave’s name was Athansa. They’d owned her for years, but Epicaste treated her as dispassionately as an animal. Harpalyke wanted to utter her name, _Athansa_ , but her parents forbade her and Idas calling slaves by name. Also, she was sure Athansa herself wouldn’t much like it, either.

“Please,” she mumbled instead. 

“Shh, child, medicine is coming,” the slave answered, passing the cold cloth over her face, wiping away tears and spit. 

The other slave, whose name she knew not, materialized then, passing a goblet to Athansa. The pair spoke in their language, known as Not Greek to Harpalyke, having awareness of only two languages, Greek and Not Greek.

The other slave left, likely to accompany Epicaste, who preferred her due to her light skin. Something cool and wooden touched against Harpalyke’s lips, and the strong, sickeningly-sweet smell of absinthe filled her nose.

“No,” she moaned, leaning away and seizing the basket. Only dry heaves left her mouth despite her roiling stomach.

“Shh, lie back, girl,” the older woman coaxed. “You must drink it all.”

There were few flavors worse than absinthe, but Harpalyke managed to get all of the dark, sticky liquid down her throat. To the slave’s credit, it did calm her stomach almost immediately, bringing a hot flush to her cheeks. The bedsheet was changed and the cool cloth passed over her face once more before she was left alone. Eventually, blessedly, the pain abated enough to let her fall asleep.

When Harpalyke awakened again, she was unsure why. The sky through the shutters was still inky black, the air silent and still. The pain kicked in, bringing her hands to her eyes. A hand caressed her face, gently pulling hers away. The cup of absinthe pressed against her lips again, even though she really wished for water.

And this cup—there was something odd about it, too cool against her lips, like stone. Her father drank from a cup of stone. When she made out his face in the scant light of the stars, she wasn’t very surprised, assuming she was dreaming.

“Daddy,” she murmured.

“Drink up, baby,” he said softly, stroking her hair from her face.

Harpalyke did as told. The cup disappeared and her father was nudging her to lie down. The absinthe acted instantly, hazing everything but the relentless throbbing of her head.

“Daddy, it hurts,” she whimpered, reaching for him. His warm palms grazed her face, his own buried in her neck.

“Shh, I’m here, princess.” Absinthe-soaked breath tickled her cheeks. Less than a second later, his lips were on hers, but this was longer and deeper than the usual kisses they shared. He opened her mouth with his and slid his tongue against hers. At first, she was bothered about not having rinsed her mouth, but he only cupped her cheeks and kissed her harder.

“You’re so warm, baby,” he said, pressing his palm to her forehead. “You’re burning up. Here, let me make it better.”

The sheet against her chest was pulled away, allowing her to take a deep breath. Her father was hovering above her, gazing at her with an expression she’d never seen before. His eyes lowered to her chest and, with horror, she realized her breasts were uncovered. Her arms twitched, but something was holding them at her sides: his hands as he lay on top of her.

“It’s alright, princess,” he breathed in her ear before trailing his lips down her neck, sending shivers down her legs, combatting the stabbing in her head. No, this is too odd, this is wrong, an internal voice was telling her, but it sounded far away, only a slight ruffling of leaves in the wind. She opened her mouth to tell her father to stop. “Daddy—Daddy—” 

“Shh, relax, my pretty girl.”

“I don’t want to get married.” That had not at all been what she’d planned to say, but the words brought forth a tide of tears, forcing Clymenus to pause and wipe them away.

“I don’t want you to, either,” he murmured in her ear, running his fingers slowly from her cheek down to her chest. “My sweet little nymph, I wish for you to stay with me forever.”

His hand was on her breast now, cupping the palest flesh, his thumb grazing her nipple. She was vaguely aware that this was wrong, that he should not be touching her this way, like a lover, but an unfamiliar sensation was blooming between her legs. This along with the absinthe-haze drowned out all uncertainty. The feeling of his gentle and eager lips on her sensitive skin tilted up her hips, her head back and eyes closed.

Then abruptly, Clymenus sat up, pulled the sheet back up to his daughter’s neck, and walked out of the room. Harpalyke was asleep before his back disappeared. She slept undisturbed for the rest of the night, the memory of her father bleeding together with fragmented dreams.


	2. II

Oh, glory day! Harpalyke could open her eyes without wincing. The sun cracked through the shutters and did not hurt her.

She sat up and rubbed her eyes. Apollo had taken the sun around twice before the pain finally subsided. Her mouth felt like it was filled with sand. She snatched up the cup beside her bed but it was empty. The slave wasn’t around, either.

She pulled the sheet off, her bare feet landing on the floor and her bones creaking as she stretched. An ache was still lurking behind her eye, not too threatening. Gingerly, she descended the stairs, cup in hand, and walked across the courtyard to the kitchen, where hopefully a jar of milk was waiting for her.

It was empty: Epicaste was visiting Eumene, Idas with his sport master, and her father likely on the throne. Unless he’d gone to Pylos already, she sure hoped not… The dream she had flashed vividly through her mind, her father’s sweet words and tender touch. No, no, she was not supposed to be thinking of such things. Yet her body fought her, starting up a hum between her legs. 

In a stroke of luck, she stepped foot inside the kitchen just as Epicaste’s preferred slave came in from the back door, holding a jug of milk fresh from the cow.

She filled the cup and sent Harpalyke on her way. As she approached the stairs, she saw something out of the corner of her eye. Turning around, she found herself face-to-face with Clymenus. She jumped, startled, causing the cup to slip through her hands and drop to the floor. Milk splashed all over her feet and legs, nearly sending her to the floor as well as she took a giant step backward.

Her father made a _tsk_ sound and shook his head. “Silly girl, you’re not supposed to be out of bed.”

“I-I feel better, Daddy,” she stammered, blushing and looking down at the splatter of milk, which seemed to contradict her meek assertion. The dream tugged at her but she refused to think of it.

“Get back to bed, Harpalyke,” he ordered gently. “I will get you more milk.” 

She assumed he’d tell the slave to bring it, but it was he who entered her room and set the cup down on the small table beside her bed. “Here you go, princess.”

“Thank you, Daddy,” she answered, looking away again. Her mind had been so preoccupied with keeping the dream away, it only just registered how odd it was to have her father in her bedroom—a scenario only in the dream. Further exacerbating the déjà vu, her father sat on the edge of the bed and stroked her cheek.

Her chest tightened when she raised her eyes to his. While his touch was confined to her face, he held the same strange expression he’d had in the dream. For a wild second, Harpalyke wondered if she had in fact been dreaming. _Of course you were!_

Clymenus leaned in then, lips puckered. Just as they pressed against hers, Idas’ nasally whine rang out from somewhere below, causing him to snap upright. 

“Father! Please come here!” 

*

Idas always dreaded the fifth day of the week when Horkos, his sports master, came around to teach. He simply had to resign himself to embarrassment of the intense, lingering sort every single week, but each time seemed to push him closer to his limit. The hurtles and archery lessons were all disasters, but nothing beat the discus throwing.

He hated the discus. As much as it pained him to admit it to himself, the thing was too damn heavy. It never landed anywhere near the target, which would’ve been fine if it ever went farther than ten feet from where he stood.

Today, luck was on his side, or that’s what it looked like at first. Horkos directed him to a field and left him alone to have a swim in the stream. Letting out a breath, discus in hand, Idas stood and took in the calm surroundings for a moment. He was glad to be out here, despite the blazing sun, rather than inside listening to his father’s speeches. At least his mother and sister weren’t concerned with him “building enough masculinity.” But his mother was with Eumene and his sister rendered useless with that headache. Not that she was very useful without it, either.

Idas lifted the discus, the muscles in his arms gently protesting. He ignored it, twisted his torso, and hurled the discus into the air. It went farther than he anticipated, but the trajectory could hardly be called straight. 

Of course, Horkos wasn’t around to see it and, by extension, wouldn’t report to the king that his son wasn’t actually an imbecile. Still, Idas took what he could get. With a hopeful trot, he hunted down the discus and returned to the same spot, considering it lucky. On the way there, he marched alongside a flock of sheep following an exhausted-looking shepherd. A minute later, Idas turned away to the edge of the field and assumed the position.

His body, particularly his right arm, was screaming in protest.  _Weak, pathetic_ , Clymenus scolded in his head. _You need to fix those weeds for arms, boy._ Idas ignored it, channeling his rage into throwing the discus. 

It went quite far, he saw, but his delight turned into frustration as it veered off to the right. Then the frustration segued into horror as it landed and he heard a startled _BAAA_ as the white puffs on the edge of the field started to disperse. 

“Oh, no,” he moaned, jogging toward the herd. The sheep were scattered across the field now, spreading further apart. He looked around helplessly for the shepherd, but he was nowhere to be seen. The man had simply vanished. And so had the discus.

“Damn it all to Hades!” Idas yelled in aggravation, stomping around in a wide pace. Then one he’d picked up from the village boys: “Tits of a whore!”

The sheep were everywhere. He tried to round up a few, but he couldn’t keep more than two together at the same time, and still the shepherd was nowhere in sight. Gods, please don’t let Horkos come back and see this, he prayed.

After what seemed like an entire day in which the sun didn’t move from the highest point in the sky, beating down on his head and shoulders, Idas decided to abandon the sheep and continue throwing. If the shepherd ever showed up, he could simply say the sheep scattered on their own. However, just as he bent to pick up the discus, rough hands seized him from behind and spun him around.

“Idiot boy,” the normally calm, old shepherd snarled, raising a knobby finger to his face. “What have you done with my sheep?” 

“No-nothing,” Idas stammered, backing away. “They just—”

“Liar! They don’t leave the herd unless something scares them!” 

“What’s going on?” asked a voice from behind them. Idas turned, heart sliding down into his gut, to see a dripping wet Horkos looking wary and confused.

“Master, no disrespect, but you’ve got to either teach this boy or give it up. He could’ve sliced off a head!” The shepherd gestured to the ground, frowning deeply. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to round up my sheep!”

He stomped off, huffing in indignation as Horkos turned to Idas. “You threw the discus at a herd?”

“It was an accident.” Idas hated how lame and meek his voice sounded. Was there nothing he could do right? Why couldn’t he be strong and fit like Horkos, like Therager? He kept his eyes on his feet, clenching the discus in his fists until Horkos gently took it from him.

“Come along, let’s end it a bit early today,” Horkos said as if it was a mere suggestion. “A bit hot today, isn’t it?” Behind him, the shepherd swore at a sheep that continued to stray from the herd.

Idas nodded gratefully and followed the older boy into the house. Horkos, like Therager, had much more patience with Idas’ abysmal ability than either of his parents. The problem was that Horkos was of course loyal to the one who hired him, that being King Clymenus. Perhaps he’d save the progress report for another day, a day when he’d forget about it…

No such luck. When they reached the throne, Idas was relieved to find it empty, but that was cut off when Horkos asked him to fetch his father. “I’d like to bid him farewell…among other discussion.” 

Trying not to show his misery on his face, Idas acquiesced, passing on the way out the male slave, who brought Horkos a cup of water. However, it seemed Clymenus temporarily disappeared too, for he was not in any of the usual spots. Idas even checked the bathtub. The chariot was secured next to the south side of the house, so his father had to be home. 

The only solution he came up with was to stand in the center of the courtyard and call, “Father, please come here!”

For a moment, the only sounds came from the kitchen, where the slaves were busy preparing supper. The male one re-entered the courtyard, cup in hand, glancing at the boy out of the side of his eye. Feeling like an utter fool, Idas opened his mouth to repeat himself louder, but just then, his father appeared at the top of the stairs. 

“What do you want?” he snapped as he came down. 

“Master Horkos wishes to speak with you,” Idas answered, trying not to frown.

“About what?” his father asked tersely.

“I-I don’t know.”

“Add that to the eternal scroll,” Clymenus grumbled, shaking his head and walking toward the lounge.

When his back disappeared from view, Idas sat in one of the chairs by the table and let out a breath. He was nearly choking with dread in anticipation of the flogging undoubtedly to come, but his mind latched onto a question in self-protection: what on Earth was his father doing upstairs?

The muttered conversation from the kitchen informed Idas that both the slaves were downstairs, and since Epicaste was out, his father was up there by himself—wait, no, Harpalyke was up there, too, but she was likely still knocked out, easy to sneak past. Was his father looking for something? There was nothing of interest in the bedrooms, not to Idas anyway, unless Clymenus thought his wife was hiding something— 

All questions ceased as the king himself appeared in the archway of the sitting room, the glimmer of malice in his eyes. “For what are you sitting there, boy? Get in here now.”

Idas jumped up as if his seat suddenly caught fire and scuttled into the lounge. His heart rose from his gut to his throat, humming in his ears. His muscles stung at the mere sight of the whip lying across the sofa.

“Since you can’t seem to do anything right, you know the procedure well enough by now,” his father barked, swinging a hand in the direction of the pillars.

Idas did know the procedure: undress, stand naked in front of the fields, and take it like a man. This occurred so frequently that no living creature outside had any curiosity about the boy standing naked with his arms extended in front of him. As if humiliating his son wasn’t enough, Clymenus was fond of drawing out the prickling anticipation by pacing behind him, whip in hand, softly delivering a monologue about why Idas deserved punishment. 

“You are turning out to be a disgrace, boy, you hear me? First you leave your sister out in the field where anyone could take her”—Idas briefly wondered who would even want Harpalyke and for what—“and now Master Horkos has told me you sent a herd of sheep running for the mountains because you have no idea how to throw a discus after six years of instruction.” 

No later than the last word had left his mouth, Idas felt the sharp sting of the leather against the sensitive skin of his backside. Much to his chagrin, he always jumped at the first blow, unable to tell when it was coming. 

“Look how you dance, like a silly puppet,” his father said before flogging him again. Idas winced, but thankfully his feet didn’t move. After the fourth time, however, he could bear the pain no longer. His knees wobbled, his nails dug into his palms, and his ears rang. Teeth cut through lip, sending blood down his chin. 

“Perhaps you will learn now,” Clymenus’ voice said beneath the loud ringing in Idas’ ears. “What do you say, boy?”

“Yes, Father,” Idas answered after a deep breath and large swallow. Mercifully, his voice came out steady. 

“Well, we’ll see when the next disaster strikes,” his father retorted, stinging his son with words now, but Idas was watching the whip’s every move. A minute passed before Clymenus hung it up and dismissed him.

Every part of Idas’ body was crying to collapse and nurse the pain. The raw, red skin of his rear rubbed against cloth as he waddled across the courtyard and carried himself upstairs. As soon as he got to the landing, covered in sweat and breathing through clenched teeth, his legs gave out and he fell to the floor.

He lay there, lacking the energy to even turn over. From down the hall, he could hear Harpalyke singing, apparently recovered from the headache. Footsteps from the stairs filled his ears and then gentle hands were tugging his shoulders.

“Idas, come, boy,” the light-skinned slave urged. He’d heard his mother call her Zoe, which he didn’t understand. The only idea he had was that her name must’ve been Zoe, but Epicaste of all household members would never call a slave by name. Was that what the king was looking for up here, evidence of a closer bond between queen and slave?

Halfway to his room, it ceased to matter what his father had been doing prior to ripping the skin off his backside. _Weak, pathetic, silly puppet._ He hated how tightly he clutched the slave’s hand, how slow and labored his steps were. The slave, who’d guided a younger, sniveling Idas many a time, helped him lie on his bed and returned to the kitchen without a backward glance.

Only when her back disappeared from view did Idas roll over, hissing in agony, cover his face, and let himself cry into his aching hands. He wished his mother was around to stroke his hair from his temples even though he was too old for that. Curled up in a ball, crying, Idas felt more like a helpless infant than the man he was supposed to be turning into. That didn’t lessen his yearning for Epicaste’s comfort a bit.

*

Everything was bright despite the only light coming from the candles. Clymenus tilted his head back and swallowed down the remainder of his eighth cup of absinthe before rising from the throne. Yes, he was good and drunk now, teetering to the side and nearly falling over. With a chuckle to himself, he wobbled through the archway and across the courtyard.

Low, muttered voices came from the bathroom, belonging to Epicaste and her precious slave. Two lazy bitches, one unable to function without the other. Upstairs was quiet, everyone else asleep. Just the way Clymenus usually liked it, but now he was about to awaken one. 

Don’t you dare, an inner voice scolded, ignored by his hazed-out brain. His body was in control, his feet carrying him to what he desired most—her.

She was sleeping, cheek resting on her hand. Moonlight shone through the window, glinting off the pile of dark hair covering her face. Carefully, Clymenus pulled the sheet back over the archway and entered the room.

He crept up next to the bed and slowly pushed back the hair from her face, dragging his fingertips languidly across her plump cheek. Her skin was so fair, so soft, and he wanted all of it. Lying on top of her, sinking into her warm softness, he caressed her jaw, gazing down at her. 

Her eyes fluttered open, eyebrows joined as she made sense of her surroundings. “Daddy?” she asked, voice heavy with sleep.

For a moment, Clymenus was still, overcome with awe at his daughter, captured by her unassuming beauty. “I love you so much, my sweet princess.”

She smiled, eyes half-closed, and he could’ve taken her right there and then. He continued to speak low in her ear, his words coming out slow and mumbled. “You’re so beautiful, Harpalyke, do you know that?”

“Yes, Daddy,” she said, turning her face away and drifting off. A flash of annoyance passed through him, his hand clasping her jaw and pulling it back. Before she could make a sound, his mouth was on hers, relishing her pillow-soft lips on his.

They were hesitant, her eyes wide now. Clymenus was going too far, too deep, but he couldn’t make himself stop. Harpalyke was _his_ and he could do what he damn well pleased with her. While one hand held her head in place, the other pulled down the sheet, letting those luscious breasts free.

“Daddy, no,” she mumbled through his kiss. 

“Shh, let me take care of you, baby,” he said, briefly covering her mouth and moving lower, pulling the skin of her neck between his teeth. Flesh filled his palm, his thumb and forefinger curling around a perfect pink nipple. Down below, his cock was rubbing against her abdomen, begging to touch.

“Daddy, I’m scared,” she said, but she’d gone limp, chest heaving. He ignored her words, replacing his fingers around her nipple with his lips. Underneath the sheet, her pelvis pressed against his—she wanted more.

Clymenus yanked the sheet further down and ran his hands down her torso, nibbling on her neck. By now, his daughter had her head tilted back, lips parted.

“Does this feel good, princess?” He breathed the question into her ear, kneading her breasts and thrusting slightly against her.

“Yes, Daddy.” It came out uncertain, but her body was speaking for her. He trailed his mouth over her chest to the soft curve of her belly, stopping himself before burrowing under the sheet until his mouth met sweet, glistening folds ready to be devoured. He was high off the scent of her, delirious with lust. Then a burst of clarity took over his mind, telling him—screaming at him, rather—that he could go no further. 

When he stood, dizziness greeted him still, but his vision was no longer woozy. He caressed his daughter once more, holding her gaze. He didn’t know how she felt, did not much care at the moment. “Sleep well,” he told her in a monotone before leaving the room.

Out in the hall, all was still quiet, Epicaste and her slave still downstairs. He took a step and the other slave, the dark one, appeared out of nowhere with an armful of folded cloth. He really shouldn’t have been up here, but no matter, Epicaste hated this slave because of her dark skin and thus, the slave avoided her. She wouldn’t be relaying this information to the queen.


	3. III

Clymenus opened his eyes, taking in the faintest light of dawn. Pain shot through his skull, causing him to wince and squeeze his eyes shut again. Slowly, the previous day came trickling back to him. His imbecilic son had thrown a discus at a herd of sheep. Clymenus had given him a lashing, polished off a bottle of absinthe…and gone into his daughter’s room.

“Oh, no,” he grumbled to himself, pressing his temples. He’d again let his passion take over—but she hadn’t resisted. Of course she hadn’t resisted; she was forbidden to, like any child to her father. Instead of that thought triggering disgust, it segued into the image of her lying under him, powerless, dark eyes wide. Under the sheet, his cock was stiffening, remembering the feel of her soft skin against his.

It was shameful and repulsive to think of his daughter in such a way, but that didn’t stop him from pumping his cock to the memory of her face, her skin, her scent, her hitched breaths… 

When hot liquid spilled into his hand, Clymenus was jerked back to reality. Shame flooded his chest and throat, choking him. This had to end right here. He’d disproven he could control himself and Harpalyke didn’t know any better. He had to start behaving like a father or at least like a logical human being. 

The path was clear: he had to carry out the task everyone expected him to. As soon as his feet touched the floor he was moving, dressing and leaving the room.

The rest of the house was silent, all other household members asleep. He awakened the slave and told him to be outside to set up the chariot for a journey. A splash of water from the well and a rinse of his mouth brought even more clarity. Now his strides were determined, though his stomach was still upset. 

 _Enough_ , he told himself. _Stop acting like a weak little girl._

Three agonizing days passed in the chariot, just Clymenus and the slave under the blistering, relentless heat. They’d brought grapes, figs, and water, but none of it could be enjoyed under the harsh sun. Through it all, his mind was stuck on only one sequence: the time spent with his daughter.

Yes, it had been one of the most glorious nights he’d had in a while, but he mustn’t get greedy for more.

By the time they’d entered the kingdom of Pylos, the slave had gone completely silent and Clymenus was plagued with what could only be the onset of hysteria. Once the sea-tinged air filled his lungs, he instantly became lucid, remembering where they were going and why.

Pylos was much more populous than Arcadia in both vegetation and citizens. The main path was dotted with men carrying baskets, riding mules or pulling them along. Those grew sparser as they advanced closer to the large, white house near the ocean. 

They passed an altar and Clymenus thought of calling upon the gods, but they likely would not listen to him at this juncture. It mattered little, for he knew he was taking the right course of action.

When the house ahead was in clear view, they caught sight of a cluster of feminine figures with hair braided atop their heads: Chloris the queen and her band of maidens. Upon seeing the horses, they scampered inside the house.

She or someone else informed King Neleus of their approaching, for a tall, muscular figure appeared between two large pillars of a vast lounge, arms extended. 

“Welcome, king of Arcadia!” he greeted enthusiastically once Clymenus was upright on the ground, muscles aching. As the slave and chariot melted into the background, the pair of kings embraced each other. To Clymenus’ aggravation, he came up only to the other man’s shoulder.

Neleus didn’t point it out, thankfully, since Clymenus remembered him as arrogant and perpetually drunk with power. “Come this way, Clymenus. You must be quite tired from your journey.” 

He led Clymenus through a row of large pillars into a lounge much more ornate than the king’s in Arcadia. They took a seat on two chairs facing each other, a small table with cups of wine between them. Next to Clymenus, a small, thin girl with only a cloth belted around her waist, two tiny pumps of breast on display, played the lyre. She gave him a dull smile, eyes unfocused.

“Fetch Alastor,” Neleus told his slave before gesturing to the table. “Go on, Clymenus, drink.” 

For once, Clymenus didn’t want to drink, but he certainly wouldn’t be able to proceed sober. Thus, he took hold of the cup and let half the sickly-sweet liquid rush down his throat. Since his stomach was empty, it went straight to his head.

“Eat,” Neleus prompted, waving a hand at the platter on the table. When Clymenus didn’t move, he added, “Relax and listen to the music. Alastor should be here any moment.” 

The boy walked in a few minutes later, breathing heavily and covered in sweat from whatever he’d been doing by the sea. 

“Ah, greetings, King Clymenus!” he exclaimed, raising his arms. Clymenus saw his hazel eyes stray toward the young girl playing the lyre for a split second on his way over to the two men.

Immediately, Clymenus disliked him. He had the same tanned, sharp face as his father but none of his build. Alastor was tall but on the ropy side, his hair spirals poking out of his head. He seemed much younger than the 26 years Neleus claimed he was.

“How are things in Arcadia? Still idyllic, I hear.”

“Quite,” Clymenus agreed, stiffly perched on the sofa.   

Neleus, who had never been one for small talk, jumped straight to the point. “What brings you here, dear king? The journey could hardly have been enjoyable in this heat. Your slave looks ready to be laid to rest. Do not worry, we have plenty to spare.” 

He and Alastor exchanged a brief chuckle while Clymenus managed a smile. “Well, it’s not extremely urgent, but I am compelled to inform you that my daughter is ready to marry.”

Father and son glanced at each other with unease this time. For one wildly hopeful minute, Clymenus expected them to apologize and inform him Alastor had chosen someone else. But then Alastor said, “I’m leaving for battle. Heracles’ army is advancing. I don’t think it will take us long to defeat them, but they grow more difficult to extinguish each time.”

His thick eyebrows were raised in rue as if Clymenus cared even a little about the boy’s plan. In fact, this news was almost as good as the original assumption. This idiot would never survive in battle. He was as good as dead simply in theory—wait, no, Clymenus was not supposed to be happy about this. He needed Alastor to return in one piece and take Harpalyke for good, for everyone’s sake.

He shoved his eyebrows up into his forehead, mimicking Alastor’s expression. “Well, isn’t that a shame. I sure hope you do return by the warm season.”

“By gods I will,” Alastor assured him. “It would be an honor to marry your Harpalyke. I’ve heard she grows even more beautiful with each passing year.”

That's right, _my_ Harpalyke, Clymenus was thinking, not yours. To prevent the words from tumbling out of his mouth, he snatched up the cup from the table and drained the rest of the wine. His stomach sloshed in protest as the liquid warmed his whole body. 

“Please eat,” Neleus said. “I’ll get some more wine in here.” 

Clymenus heeded the advice, eating, drinking, and keeping up the façade as he chatted with the other king. Alastor took leave around the same time as the sun, leaving the two men and the girl playing the lyre with a view of the starry night over the ocean.

The sight reminded Clymenus of his youth visiting the sea not far from his birthplace, Argos, hot sand under his feet and salty wind whipping around his ears. He’d been so strong, so powerful, simply taking Arcadia like the gods meant for it to be his. What would his younger self think of him now, craving absinthe and the flesh of his own daughter? Disgust, like any other man in his right mind.

Eventually, when the night grew cooler, Neleus ended the two-man gathering by offering a large bedroom with its own alcove and chamber pot. “If you need company, Kore would be happy to join you.” He waved his arm toward the girl, evidently the signal for her to stop playing the lyre. 

Clymenus looked Kore up and down; she looked no older than 14, with protruding ribs and nipples smaller than pebbles. His stomach turned at the thought of lying with her. “Thank you for the offer, good king, but I must decline. My back is stiff from the journey.” 

Neleus accepted the excuse, leading Kore to his own room instead. “Sleep well, Clymenus.”

At last he was alone to think, atop a wonderfully soft bed with cool, caressing sheets. The crashing of the ocean waves against the distant shore lulled him more than the alcohol.

Closing his eyes, he tried to conjure memories of his childhood, but only hazy visions of the sea and sand and figures of the other boys he’d tussled with came to mind. That was a long time ago—how many years? Forty, at least. Therager had grown out of it and Idas didn’t get along much with the sons of the aristocracy, only those punks from the village. Once Clymenus had caught him walking the path with a couple of them, so dirty and trying-to-be-tough, he almost didn’t recognize him. Clymenus didn’t want his son to be weak-willed but not disgraceful like those boys, either.

Turning on his side on the unfamiliar bed, he let out a breath, wondering why it was so hard to deal with Idas. He’d never had to worry a wink about Therager. His elder boy just knew how to _be_.

And Harpalyke—she had no close girlfriends. Horkos’ and Erastos’ daughters did not like her. Clymenus knew she was spoiled with a vicious streak toward her peers, but he hadn’t the heart to put her in her place. Epicaste was supposed to take care of it, but he didn’t push it, for she was hostile enough toward their daughter. 

But even with all of her character flaws, Harpalyke was still _his_ , his joy, his silken-haired nymph. Gods, please hinder Alastor from ever returning, he begged silently. The gods had to listen to him, the wish too great. Anyone, god or mortal, could see why she was so irresistible. 

He pictured her on her bed, pressed against him. How could he and that bitch Epicaste created such a perfect creature? His hand was around his cock again as he brought to mind her large dark eyes, plump lips, bright smile directed at nobody else but him. Only he could make her happy, not this fool Alastor nor any other man. 

With the memory of her heavy breaths in his ear, her skin under his palm, and her scent in his nose, Clymenus spilled into his hand before falling into a sound sleep.

* 

As soon as Harpalyke awakened, she knew something was wrong. Last night—no, she would not think of last night just yet. She could not yet reflect on it, would not decipher her feelings toward those strange events. 

Instead, this morning: the break of dawn, the shuffling somewhere below, the snapping of a whip, the hooves of horses… Harpalyke swung her legs over the side of the bed, pulled the sheet off, and crept to the window. The chariot was gone; thus, her father was gone. 

Her heart clenched in her chest. The only journey he’d talked about taking was to Pylos. Oh Gods, was he telling Prince Alastor to come and take her?

Tears burned her eyes. How could her father just give her away? He’d said he didn’t want to. An odd wave of shame and tingle of pleasure assaulted her from all sides as she recalled his last visit to her room. It had been so scary, so unexpected, but so nice, his undivided attention, soft touch, and sweet words.

And that was apparently all over. Her face crumpled and she sank to her knees, ready to burst into tears. What had she done wrong? How could she have gotten him to stay? 

Just as tears leaked out of her eyes, Idas’ heavy footsteps clomped past the curtain-covered archway. “I’ll be back later!” his prepubescent, cracked voice called. Epicaste did not reply.

Harpalyke scrambled to her feet and dashed out of the room. By this time, Idas had descended the stairs, disappearing into the courtyard. She nearly rolled down the stairs going after him, stumbling into the courtyard just as he reached the entrance to the king’s lounge. “Idas!” she burst out in a labored breath. “Wait!”

“What is it?” he snapped impatiently, his arms crossed as she approached.

“Do you—do you know where Father went?” she asked, letting his attitude slide.

Her brother rolled his eyes, sighing dramatically. “Isn’t it obvious? He’s gone to Pylos so we’ll finally be rid of you soon.”

“And where are _you_ going?” she demanded, desperately ignoring the burning in her stomach ignited by his answer.

“None of your business,” he told her smarmily, turning away. “Go drink some more milk, you dumb cow.”

“Go drown in the river!” she shouted, eyes stinging with tears again, angry ones this time.

“Aww, is the fat little baby crying again?” Idas mocked. “Does Princess Harpalyke need to lie down from all the exertion?”

“Shut up!” Her brain shut off, overtaken by white-hot fury. She lunged at him and kicked him where it hurt, her foot connecting solidly with soft flesh between his legs.

To her triumph, he went down, clutching his groin and howling with pain. “You evil wench!” he bawled. “Damn you straight to Hades!”

“What’s going on here?” their mother’s shrill voice rang through the courtyard. A moment later, she appeared, stalking toward them. “What are you two doing?”

“She kicked me!” Idas cried, and of course mommy’s favorite immediately bought her sympathy.

“Go into the kitchen, darling, and tell the slave to take care of you.” 

When he hobbled off, grimacing, Epicaste turned on her daughter, face twisted in fury. “What have you done to him, you little sow?”

“He started with me!” Harpalyke protested, but as usual, her mother didn’t believe her.

“Stop lying, you disgraceful beast.” Normally pretty, Epicaste looked quite hideous when she was in a fit. “Get upstairs. I don’t want to see you for the rest of the day.” 

“I wish to stay _here_ ,” her daughter stated, crossing her arms. “I’m sick of inside.”

Epicaste’s first response was to bring her hand crashing into her daughter’s cheek, uncrossing her arms as she jerked back.

Though this was far from the first time she’d been hit, bubbling rage flowed through Harpalyke’s veins as she clutched her cheek, fighting tears. “I hate you!” she burst out and, to her embarrassment, started to cry. 

“I don’t care.” The words were delivered as chilly as the stream during the cold season.

“You’re terrible!” As soon as the words left her lips, Harpalyke was filled with her own coolness, weaved through her next statement. “No wonder Daddy doesn’t like you!” 

SMACK! This one sent her sprawling but she managed to catch her balance, hair falling over her face. Before she could right herself, a fistful was clasping the hair at the root, tugging her scalp painfully and forcing her head down. “You dare speak to me like that, you little pig?” Epicaste was snarling.

“Would you like help, my lady?” Athansa’s voice came from somewhere, calm in stark contrast to Epicaste’s.

“Yes, take this wicked, disobedient child away.” The fist gave her hair a searing yank and the stone ground was rushing to meet her face. She threw her hands out just in time, turning her cheek.

Her mother’s feet walked out of her sideways view. “Keep her in the room,” she added. “I’m sick of seeing her face.”

The plan was not to cry at all, but Harpalyke’s body acted without her mind, dissolving into heavy sobs as Athansa’s gentle grip pulled her to her feet and held her close.

“I hate her, I hate her, I hate her,” she cried, growing even more agitated as Athansa led her up the stairs. “Do you hear that, Epicaste? I hate you, hate you, _hate you_!”

Bless the slave, for she simply let her shout, nudging her to the bed and pulling back the sheet. “I want Daddy to come back,” Harpalyke whimpered as she sank into the bed, hot tears soaked up by the sheet. “I want him back, I hate her.”

She was speaking directly to Athansa now, but the older woman was staring off into the distance, stroking Harpalyke’s hair absentmindedly.

The girl felt her breath slowing, calming down. Through raw, swollen eyelids, she watched Athansa, wondering if she’d ever had a mother and where she was now. Dead, likely. “I hope your mother was better than mine,” she told her, voice coming out weak and cracked.

The two locked eyes for a moment. Both had shades of brown but Athansa’s were like pools of black reflecting the night sky when clouds covered the stars and moon. Then they glistened and Athansa’s whole face was overcome with a look of such turmoil, Harpalyke’s own eyes began to well up again. Of all the volatility she’d spewed, this was the worst, and she hadn’t even meant it.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, forgetting she was speaking to a slave. They didn’t understand complex matters such as regret, according to Epicaste. 

Athansa blinked and turned away, back to blank-faced. “I’ll fetch you a cool cloth and a cup of milk,” she said on the way out.

Still sniffling, Harpalyke sat up and let out a breath before walking over to the window, hoping to see a chariot in the distance heading this way. Epicaste was so much more vicious when Clymenus wasn’t around. 

The memory of his hand on her breast awakened a clench between her legs, but a second later, she was distracted by the sound of thumping of sandals against dirt: Idas was trotting through the field, heading who-knew-where. A pang of envy ripped through her chest as she watched his figure shrink into the horizon. Why, oh gods, did she have to be born a girl? Men’s lives were a walk through the field, literally.

*

Free at last. His sister’s hollering echoed in Idas’ ears as he trotted away. No destination, just away. Between his legs, pain radiated out through his torso, but at least his gait was no longer stilted. Curse Harpalyke till the end of time, he thought angrily.

He realized he was walking in the direction of the village, which was fine by him. The sun was hovering just above the mountains, so the boys were likely gathered in the usual spot behind the ruin of the last house on the path.

Sure enough, a triad was leaning against the sloped wall, sharing a jar of deep red liquid. “Look, it’s your majesty,” called the closest one, a large, bronze-faced boy by the name of Cleon.

The other two turned to watch Idas approach. They all seemed stronger than him, with their tanned skin and hardened expressions. Even Timon, the scrawniest one, looked more of a threat than the king’s son.

Timon, perhaps in an attempt to deflect from his size, was also the orneriest. “Can your majesty actually roam today, or does he have to run home to Daddy at sunset?”

“My father is not home,” Idas informed him coolly. “You missed his chariot?”

“Well, yeah,” the other replied, narrowing his eyes. “He left before the sun came up. Even the roosters were still asleep.”

“He has a long journey.” Idas didn’t know why he felt the need to defend himself or his family to this village boy. 

Silently scolding himself, he decided to keep his mouth shut, but then the quietest boy, Diodoros, asked, “Where did he go?”

Diodoros was the only one Idas could trust to ask a question simply out of curiosity. Before he could reply, the jar of foul-smelling liquid was thrust under his nose.

He took a large gulp, a few drops dribbling down his chin. Feeling his face flush, he hastily wiped them away as he passed the jar to Diodoros and answered, “To my sister’s future husband, Prince Alastor of Pylos.”

The two oldest boys, Timon and Cleon, exchanged smirks. “That’s just grand. Pylos is far enough away to lose a reputation, I suppose.”

Idas didn’t know what that meant, but it had to be something snide if it was coming from Timon. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked uneasily.

As expected, the little punk simply snorted, but Cleon was feeling merciful, or so Idas wrongly assumed. The other pressed his calloused hand against his back. “Listen, brother, the whole village knows of your sister, how she’s a bit…slow.”

Though Idas didn’t quite disagree with the statement, especially with the faint stinging between his legs, anger pricked his nerves. “Listen here. I shall remind you that this is _our_ kingdom and my sister is none of your concern. You’re not to talk, seeing as your family can’t afford to sample a single grape you grow.” 

Cleon’s fists clenched and he glared at Idas, but Idas was turning to Timon. “And you…how many times has Apollo dragged the sun across the sky since you last saw your father?”

Timon mimicked Cleon’s stance, but Idas disregarded him, too. Instead his eyes fell on Diodoros, who widened his eyes. “I—I’ve heard your sister’s quite beautiful,” the boy stammered.

Idas looked away, taking an uncomfortable breath. He didn’t even have an argument. Slow and beautiful, two things which accurately described Harpalyke. He’d dealt some low blows, throwing their lower statuses and dysfunctions in the boys’ faces. He felt like an utter jerk using his royal power move.

But damn if it wasn’t effective: Cleon passed the jar to Idas and the tension surrounding the group started to ebb. 

“Alright, ladies, time to decide on an evening activity,” said Cleon, clapping his hands together. Idas caught himself before jumping. “Any ideas?”

Idas’ and Diodoros’ faces were blank, but the malicious glint returned to Timon’s eyes. “I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we run the path around the village? We’ll meet here upon finishing. The loser will have to let the king’s farmer’s pigs loose.” 

Idas’ heard sank; he was the slowest of all of them and Timon knew it. With false bravado, he shook his head. “They’ll not leave the pen.”

“So make them.” The command was flat, cold, and delivered as if Idas had already lost, setting him on edge. The sting was in the accuracy.

“I believe that’ll be your job,” he said coolly, straightening up. “Where do we start, then?” 

“Here’s a good enough place as any.” 

After another swig of wine, the four of them stepped toward the path, facing the shrine of Artemis. Idas thought of sending a brief plea to her but quickly dismissed it. Only women and the weak cried to the gods, his father said more than once.

In synchrony, they leaned on one knee, narrowing their eyes and preparing to leap forward. “Ready…one…two…three!” Cleon bellowed and they were off.

The alcohol decided then to rush into Idas’ brain, wobbling his vision and his gait, churning his stomach. His throat clenched shut, fighting down bile, while his breath burst through his nose.

As he hurdled down the path along the perimeter of endless farmland, his stinging balls swung around without support. In an attempt to make some, he bunched his tunic between his legs, hugging it with his thighs. He knew he looked colossally ridiculous, but he didn’t care as long as it worked. Of course, it was only temporary.

 _Curse Harpalyke!_ He tried to channel his rage into his muscles, propelling his body forward, which did help somewhat. However, the pain grew worse, fighting for control.

He ducked, grunting in pain, wondering if he could continue. _Weak, pathetic_ , Clymenus chided. No, he had to get back to the ruin and face is punishment, now inevitable since the others were leagues ahead of him.

“Please, gods.” The breathy whimper slipped past his dry lips without his awareness. In response, the sun sank beneath the mountains as if Apollo was turning away in disgust.

 _Weak, pathetic_ , a voice inside needled.

Something was on his side at least, for he managed to drag himself to the ruin, where the other three were waiting, grinning smugly. Even Diodoros had a smile on his face, but his seemed more in relief.

Idas wiped the sweat from his brow, trying in vain to get his breathing under control. The others, he noted with slight aggravation, hadn’t seemed to exert themselves at all. “Alright,” he sighed. “I shall carry out the agreement.” 

And so this was how he wound up on the property of the stern-faced, ill-tempered Erastos, who was hopefully sloshing with absinthe in his lounge on the other side of the house. With only the starlight to guide him, Idas crept up to the pen and pulled open the wooden door with shaking hands.

Erastos was the king’s personal farmer, which was Timon’s likely motive for choosing him. If Idas was caught and identified, the first person Erastos would run to tell was Clymenus. However, he could not go back on the agreement, especially since the boys were hidden in the bushes, watching his every move. He stepped out of the pen, propping the door open, but of course the pigs were content where they were.

Trying to keep the look of complete hopelessness off his face, Idas glanced at the six-eyed hedge. He had not a single clue what to do, never having done anything on the fat other than run through it.

_Weak, pathetic…_

Then at last, a solution: he had to scare them out. That would get them moving, but how? Perhaps just a quick startle…

He crept along the wooden fence. Since the air was now much cooler, every hog was outside, happily grazing or sitting in mud. Concentrating hard, Idas took a step back from the smallest, who was facing the other way. The plan was simple: give the animal a hard push and hurdle over the fence before it could turn around.

This plan turned out to be too ambitious. Not three steps into the dash toward the pig, Idas’ foot slipped away too fast and down he went, straight into the piss-soaked mud. 

Since he’d had his hands out ready to push, they hit the ground first, but they, too, slid away from him, causing him to belly-slide forward. Nose hovering over the mud, attacked by the fetid odor, he found himself between the pig’s legs. From the hedge now out of sight, he heard a lone cackle of laughter. 

Now this was a predicament. Stifling a frustrated cry, Idas propped himself up on his elbows and managed to slither backward until he was treated to a close-up of a tail resting atop a dirty, matted-haired ass. Sighing in relief, he climbed to his feet. Of course, he still had to—

The rapid train of thought was painfully thwarted as the dumb animal suddenly and sharply lifted its leg, sending a slop of stinky brown into his face.

“Augh!” he howled, bringing his hands to his face even though it was pointless, since every part of his body was covered in filth at this point. His eyes were set ablaze by the mud. Blindly, he stumbled, kicking out his leg involuntarily. It connected with the pig’s, finally setting off the intended effect. A squeal followed by the stomping of hooves filled his ears and a ripple of pride flowed through his chest. This, too, was cut off sharply as a loud voice rang out over the stomping.

“Who’s out there, gods help you?”

The stomping ceased, the beasts recognizing their owner’s commanding voice. A rustling of bushes as the others abandoned him, running into the night, the sound of sandals slamming angrily against dirt as footsteps approached…

Tears of agony finally pushed the mud out of Idas’ eyes, allowing him to regain the blurriest of sight. Enough to see his father’s preferred farmer standing less than arm’s length away, glowering at him in confusion and fury. 

“Pan, bring misfortune upon this wayward boy!” he squawked, cutting through the night air across the whole village.


	4. IV

When the house appeared on the horizon, Clymenus was sure it was a mirage. He was certainly delirious enough. But when his slave, who could withstand hotter temperatures, pointed it out, he knew he was finally home.

Neleus had kept him for another night for more lounging. Eventually, Clymenus had given in and taken his doll-like whore to bed, trying to imagine paler, curvier skin and smoother, silkier hair. It hadn’t worked very well and he found he couldn’t go all the way. He’d had to bribe the girl to withhold it from Neleus, though he suspected she wasn’t much of a talker.

Now, thankfully, the whole ordeal was left far behind and he could sit atop his throne again. The fields, gardens, slaves, livestock—he loved all of it, for it was all his own. Everything in his lounge was just the way he’d left it save for the fine coating of dust on each surface. On the way to the courtyard, he told the slave to clear it away and fetch him a cup of absinthe.

His wife and children occupied the courtyard, waiting for him. Not exactly thrilled to see them, for he wanted to settle in on his own, he held a hand up in greeting.

“Welcome home,” Epicaste said in a monotone as he leaned in to kiss her cheek. As usual, he could feel her shrinking away from him.

“You sound quite enthusiastic about my return.” The remark dripped with sarcasm.

Instead of assuring him she was like any good wife would, Epicaste rolled her eyes and turned away. Clymenus fought the urge to seize her shoulders and shake the insolence out of her, not wanting to cause a scene in front of the children.

“I’m glad of your return,” said Harpalyke, smiling and peeking up at him through long, dark eyelashes. 

Clymenus’ anger instantly morphed into adoration. Though he wanted nothing more than to caress her sweet face—gods, how often he’d thought of it on the journey—he settled on placing his hand on her shoulder.

“Glad to hear it, darling,” he told her, giving her a smile that hopefully conveyed paternal fondness rather than longing. That faltered when he caught sight of a red crescent below her eye, puffed out from her perfect, plump cheek.

“What happened here?” he demanded, touching his fingertips against the raw skin.

Harpalyke winced and cast her eyes away, growing solemn. Feeling the fury rush in, Clymenus turned to his wife, knowing exactly what happened. “What have you done?” 

“She was acting up, Clymenus,” Epicaste informed him frostily, not even questioning the move, the sadistic bitch. 

“How dare you!” he shouted before he knew what he was saying. He was about to advance on her but caught himself just in time, for she was appraising him with a hint of suspicion. Hitting was a common enough occurrence by the both of them; why was this different? 

Standing rigid, he spoke in a tone that matched hers. “Foolish wretch, must I remind you to use your head? What if I’d returned with Neleus’ son? What if he were to come even two days later? Her cheek would still be marred.”

Instead of looking abashed, her cold, dark eyes dimmed with dismay. “You mean he’s not coming anytime soon?”

“No, he’s preparing for battle. He estimates he will return by the warm season.”

Epicaste scrunched up her face like she’d just been handed a basket of cow manure. “Why can’t he take her now?”

“I haven’t got to get married now?” Harpalyke piped up, eyes wide with hope.

“Get upstairs!” Epicaste barked in her face, causing her to flinch and hurry away.

“Must you be so harsh?” Clymenus snapped. “It would not be fair to leave her alone and ache for his return. And if he survives a warrior…imagine the prestige it will bring upon my name.”

She didn’t speak, that aggravating, appraising expression back on her face. If her gaze was intense before, now it was beaming through his eyeballs into his soul. “You set this up, didn’t you? You don’t wish for her to marry at all.”

“That is absurd.” As soon as the words left his mouth, the light-skinned slave appeared beside them. Rarely did she speak to anyone other than Epicaste, but she addressed them both. “Forgive me, king and queen, but Erastos the farmer is in the lounge.”

Clymenus wrinkled his brow. Was something wrong with the livestock? Leaving Epicaste in the courtyard without a word, he headed to the lounge. The slave was pouring a cup of wine, but the farmer did not bring it to his lips. Not a good sign.

“Ah, Erastos!” Clymenus stretched his arms, trying not to let the tension tighten his voice. “What fortunate timing, I’ve only just returned! No bad news, I pray.”

“Not about the livestock,” Erastos assured him quickly, seeming to read his mind. “It’s about…your boy, Idas.”

“What’s he done?” Clymenus asked, gripped with dread.

Erastos related the tale of the moronic boy rolling in the mud with the pigs, making a complete ass of himself in front of the others. They were filthy village scum, but he was certain none of them would’ve gotten themselves into such a situation. Now the whole village would know how lame and foolish the king’s son was.

“Thank you for informing me, Erastos,” he bit out, his fists curling around his tunic.

“Of course, my king.” The farmer set down the still-full cup and took his leave.

Before he stepped off the patio, Clymenus was already rising from the throne, reaching for the whip and ordering the slave, “Fetch Idas from wherever he may be _now_.”

*

Idas hated himself for trembling. He tried to stiffen against it, but eventually he gave up. He’d just gotten the flogging of his life, after all.

His father’s rebuke continued to roar in his ears: _stupid, disgraceful boy, unworthy of this kingdom._ He didn’t understand; Clymenus wanted him to be like the other boys, but he punished him when he behaved like them? 

But Idas was not like them. _Weak, pathetic…_ None of those boys, not even Diodoros, would’ve finished last if he was in the race. And they’d known that, counted on him losing.

He sighed and attempted to roll over, hissing in pain. His back and buttocks were shredded raw and oozing, clinging to the sheet. Much to Idas’ chagrin, his eyes filled with tears and he stifled a whimper. 

_Weak, pathetic…_

Why, gods, why had he been born like this? What had he done to deserve the curse of weakness? And the curse of a father who saw only that in him and nothing else.

 _Weak, pathetic_. His words, always in his voice.

He was jerked out of his wallowing by a drawn-out cross between a mewl and a howl traveling down the corridor. 

“No, please don’t…” His sister was evidently in the throes of a nightmare. Luckily for her, it was in her dream and not reality like it was in Idas.’

She quieted down shortly after that and Idas assumed the dark slave had gone to attend to her. He did not want to care of any slave or his mother, determined to tough it out. Fortunately, the pain began to dull and he fell asleep as soon as he let his eyes close.

*

Deep into her subconscious, Harpalyke was tied down to a slab of stone, naked, wrists bound by rope. A shadowed figure stood over, face concealed by a large, black hood. “You are mine,” it said—he. A man’s voice, growling with threat.

“No, please don’t,” she whimpered.

He approached, his face coming into focus…it looked so familiar…her father, but that couldn’t be—

“It’s alright, sweetheart.” His voice, to her relief, was back to normal. “You’re only dreaming, baby.”

She looked down and realized he was right: she was in her bed, wrapped in a sheet like any other night, or rather, one of the better ones, for her father’s smiling face was only a breath away. “Oh, Daddy,” she mumbled, tears springing to her eyes.

“Shh, relax, my sweet girl,” he whispered, wiping a stray tear leaking out. He ducked his head and kissed her softly on the lips. Without her awareness, her arms escaped from under the sheet and wrapped around his neck. A second too late, her hand flew to her chest, stopping the sheet from uncovering her breasts.

He took her hand and gently pulled it away, resting it at her side. Her breasts were out in the open now, under his gaze. 

Slowly, he dragged his fingertips down her cheek to her chest, raising goosebumps all over. A momentary shiver of pleasure took over as her heart sped up, thumping in her ears. 

“Wait,” Harpalyke whispered before he kissed her again. He smelled of absinthe as usual, but she could also detect something like blood. Perhaps from Idas’ flogging.

Clymenus propped himself up on his elbow, her arm still around his neck. He touched her temple, the spot where Epicaste struck her. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I won’t let her hurt you.” Leaning over and turning her head slightly to the side, he pressed his lips against the swollen skin. 

Harpalyke’s eyes teared up again. “She hates me.” 

“Disregard her. I love you.” He kissed her on the mouth, this time with passion, parting her lips and finding her tongue with his. She wasn’t sure how to reciprocate other than to close her eyes and let him. His hand traveled lower, pulling the sheet down with it until it reached the tops of her thighs. Blushing furiously, she saw that his eyes were on the patch of thick, dark hair between her legs. She tried to curl up and roll over, but he held her arm down.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered in her ear, dragging his fingertips back up over her hip. 

“Th-thank you, Daddy.”

Harpalyke did not want to go this far, for it tensed her muscles and overworked her heart, but she was not about to refuse him. She could no longer prevent him from marrying her off, but that didn’t mean she had to deprive herself of one of the truest forms of happiness, brought by her father’s attention.

With the gentlest caress, his fingertips swirled around her breast and tugged on her nipple. Though she was prickling with discomfort, a burning ache started up deep in the pit of her stomach. Perhaps if he kept his hand up here…but then it was moving lower again, over the curve of her stomach and through the patch of hair.

“Daddy,” she whimpered. “I’m scared.”

He shushed her, pressing a finger to her lips. “Relax, princess. Let me take care of you.”

His hand was on her soft pink flesh now, her most sensitive skin, exploring. Tingles ran down her legs all the way to her toes. In her head, her thoughts were a jumbled mess: _I like this, no, I’m not supposed to, he wouldn’t harm you, trust him, but this is_ my _place and I don’t know, I don’t know…_

The area was slick, causing her to gasp and twist away in horror, thinking she’d wet herself. She clamped her legs shut, eyes welling in shame. 

Clymenus was not pleased. He seized her thigh and pried open her legs. “Do not resist me, Harpalyke,” he hissed, covering her mouth with his other hand.

Heart beating wildly, she lay still as her father’s hand returned to the soft, slick skin. A strange scent was filling her nose, vague and sweet, not like urine at all. His fingertips traced her inner lips, bringing more tingles and fluid. She liked it, she realized.

The pads of his two fingers pressed a button somewhere down there between the patch of hair and her entrance, sending powerful jolts through her whole body. Keeping his hunger-filled eyes on hers, he started to rub. “Do you like that, baby? Does it feel good?” 

“Yes, Daddy,” she mumbled through his fingers. Her legs were parting wider, her hips tilting up. Never before had she experienced such a sensation or knew her body could be touched in this way, but it felt _so good_ , she didn’t want it to stop.

Her heart trumped on but she was no longer anxious. Quite the contrary, in fact. Heavy breaths and that musky scent filled the room as her father rubbed her harder. A ringing started up in her ears, drowning out any coherent thoughts, while her back was arching, her face scrunching up.

“Oh, Daddy,” she moaned as all of her muscles seized up. “Oh gods, please—!”

“Shh.” He pressed his palm harder against her mouth, but he evidently knew what she was asking, for he continued, teeth bared and his own breaths coming out ragged.

“Come on, princess, come for me…”

Muffled cries escaped his hand as her entire body stiffened, her eyes squeezing shut, the ringing taking over all. Then at once, she went limp, pleasure flooding through her like ocean waves in a storm. “Oh,” she cried slowly, feeling like she’d turned into air and was floating into a warm night sky.

Clymenus sat up and brought his fluid-coated fingers to his mouth. His daughter looked on, chest heaving and limbs shaking. “Daddy,” she breathed. She didn’t understand what had just happened but it was glorious and she wanted more. She wanted _him_.

He smiled down at her, stroking her cheek, before replacing the sheet back over her chest. She puckered her lips, silently asking for a kiss. He obliged even though it was quick and chaste. “Sleep well, darling girl,” he said softly in her ear. “And keep this our secret, won’t you? All the other girls are already envious of your beauty. They’ll be cruel to you because you’re so special.”

Before Harpalyke could respond, he was already on his feet and walking away. Suppressing the urge to call him back, she watched the curtain over the archway fall into place, hiding his retreating figure from view.

Letting out a sigh of contentment, she rolled over and smiled, closing her eyes. He was right: the other girls of her parents’ friends, Chrysanthe and Eulalia, would surely be more jealous and catty, for their fathers never paid attention to them. Of course, their mothers hugged them and spoke highly of them, but Harpalyke didn’t need Epicaste’s empty, perfunctory praise. Her father gave her _real_ love and took the best care of her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope to update this 2x per month/every other week, but I can't promise. At the very least updates will come every 3 weeks. :)


	5. V

Many days passed before Idas ventured to the village. The air grew colder, Apollo’s rounds were shorter, and the mountain greens dulled to a yellow-brown. Nights were spent between woolen sheets, watching his breath cloud in front of him, listening to his parents fight. They’d been tense lately, even more foul-tempered than usual, especially his father. Idas made sure to stay out of his way.

Tonight, a particularly cool evening, his parents were not home. They’d gone to visit Therager in Argos. Idas opted not to go and no one wished to deal with Harpalyke that long in a chariot, so the children were left to the female slaves. For the most part, they gave him free reign.

The evening air soothed his flushed cheeks as he trotted through the garden. Only the faintest traces of sunlight reached over the mountains. His heart beat rapidly in his chest; anticipation of the boys’ reactions set him on edge.

_Weak, pathetic…_

Would they laugh at him, scorn him outright? He could play the prince role, but what good was it if the prince was a fool? Behind that old ruin, social class ceased to be relevant.

There they all were, gathered around a tiny fire created from twigs and dried grass, contained by a circle of rocks in various sizes. A jug of sticky red was being passed around, an ordinary evening. None were wearing tunics heavier than cotton, Idas noticed, feeling even more foolish draped in wool. Perhaps he should just turn around.

 _Weak, pathetic_ —no. He couldn’t hide at home forever. With any luck, some other event had caught their attention and they’d all forgotten about him...except his mere presence was enough to refresh their collective memory.

“Who’s there?” Timon’s voice called, heavy with aggression, causing Idas to flinch. His cheeks flushed deeper, but he managed to speak in a loud, steady voice.

“It’s me, Idas,” he called as he approached. 

He felt a bit like he was wading through the Styx advancing toward the circle of hostile-faced boys. Well, save for Diodoros, who looked his usual benign self.

“Greetings,” Idas said nervously, standing slightly outside of the circle, trying hard to keep from shuffling his feet.

“Greetings,” they muttered in varying tones. For a painful moment, nobody moved or spoke, simply staring. Idas’ head was firing off frantic questions. Would they accept him? Jump on him? Coldly ignore his presence? 

That was answered the next minute when Diodoros passed the jar to his left, to Idas. Though his stomach had been acting up the past couple of days, Idas took a large gulp of the foul-tasting wine. A trickle dribbled down his chin, but thankfully the other boys had unglued their eyes from him.

“What’s the plan for tonight, ladies?” Timon asked, finally breaking the silence. “It sure is a nice night for some cattle-tipping.” 

Idas swallowed hard. The others didn’t look quite so enthused, either. “Come on, you bunch of babies,” Timon whined. “Even Idas’ sister could tip a cow over.” 

“Yes, but why would she?” Diodoros asked. “Sounds like a good way to get into trouble.”

“Going soft, are you?” Timon sneered at him. “Can’t handle a lashing from your old man? Idas would know all about that. Could hear his wails from anywhere in Arcadia.”

“Bite your tongue,” Idas growled, his hands clenching into fists.

“Yes, or what? Think you got any authority over me, especially after you made a complete ass of yourself?” 

“He didn’t,” said Cleon, causing everyone to turn to him in astonishment. Rarely did the boy speak out against Timon, who he regarded as the leader.

“He lost the race, he carried out the punishment,” he explained, shrugging. “He kept his word.” 

For once, Timon did not have a scathing retort. While Idas nearly drowned in gratitude toward Cleon, the jar was passed around once more.

Eventually, they decided on an easy game of knucklebones, for a quiet night was approaching and no one wanted to get in trouble, since this meant more lashings from their fathers. None would admit that, either, so they settled into the game without complaint.

Idas sure wasn’t complaining. Because the game relied on mental skill rather than physical, he made for quite a good player. Even Timon begrudgingly commented on his skill before the boys went their separate ways.

All in all, a pleasant evening, the first he’d had in a while. And most importantly, normal, absent of vicious yelling and teenage-girl crying. For the previous hour or so, Idas felt like he almost belonged, and it was all thanks to that disastrous pig pen incident. If it brought more comradery, he would happily slide through the mud once more, though not anywhere near the farm animals. 

 _He kept his word…_ Cleon’s voice instead of his father’s echoed in his head now and he welcomed the replacement, letting a grin cross his face as he entered the house.

Only the dark-skinned slave was in the kitchen, fetching a cup of milk for Harpalyke. She left without speaking to Idas, giving him space to splash his face and rinse his mouth. Feeling refreshed and slightly lighter, he patted his face and went upstairs to his bed. Since the house was unusually still and quiet, he fell asleep almost instantly, feeling much calmer than he had in a long time. 

* 

Harpalyke could not fall asleep. The night grew colder, the house went silent, and still she lay blinking in the darkness. Every so often, she strained to see if her breath clouded, but it wasn’t cold enough for that, though it felt like it.

An ache was constricting her chest. She missed her father, but he’d gone with Epicaste to Argos, visiting Therager. Harpalyke’s older brother was like a stranger to her, so she didn’t care about being left behind. In exchange for a much-needed break from Epicaste, the price was Clymenus’ absence.

As the weather had grown colder, he’d been coming to her room at night less and less, but those golden times he did, he sent her into the clouds with his touch and sweet words of adoration. The last time he’d come was over two weeks ago. At first, she worried that she’d done something wrong, but he’d assured her that was not the case: “We have to keep our secret carefully, my sweet girl.” 

Wrapped in wool, Harpalyke smiled. She loved how special her father made her feel. Her hand snaked between her legs and attempted to replicate his touch, but she couldn’t relax enough to bring about any pleasure. The ache in her chest outweighed all else.

With her ears hyper-tuned for any sound, she pulled off the sheet and swung her legs over her bed. A chill ran down up her legs as her feet touched the floor, only barely registered in her mind. She didn’t quite know where she was going, her feet carrying her where they wished, which was apparently to the male section of the house. 

Of course it was empty, since the male slave had driven the chariot away with her father in it. Oftentimes the king slept in the room next to his lounge. It was here her feet took her, leaving her standing in the archway. She pulled the sheet aside and crept into the empty, moonlit room. 

The bed was unmade, white sheets rumpled. That was fine with Harpalyke, who only wanted to collapse upon it and inhale his scent.

Burying her face into the pillow, she wrapped herself in the sheets and breathed in his distinct scent, man mixed with absinthe and a hint of sweat and earth. Though her father did not work in the fields like the slaves, he gave off a similar toughness. He’d been a warrior in his youth, claiming Arcadia as his. All the other kingdoms, she heard, strived to be like Arcadia, peaceful yet resourceful, under King Clymenus’ control.

Surrounded by his essence, she could hear clearly his voice in her ear, in the tone he reserved only for her. _My special princess. My one true love._

She rolled over for more air. Her hand was burrowing its way lower again, her legs falling open again. She pretended her hand was her father’s, disregarding her soft, girlish skin. He usually started by tracing the slit, spreading her not-pee all over her outer lips. Sometimes he pinched them together or squeezed her mound, but mostly he rubbed the small nub just below. It felt so good when he pressed that, especially with his thumb.

Her own thumb could not reach the right angle, so she used the pads of her two fingers like he did when he wanted to kiss her at the same time. As she rubbed, she pressed the back of her hand to her lips to have skin against them, yearning for his.

After a minute or two of rubbing, tiny cries rose from her throat, pushing against her hand. Not wanting to wake everything in the vicinity, she turned over. Her face sank into the pillow, and she slid her knees up, propping up her rear. Pressing her wrist against the bed, palm up, she kept her hand rigid, rocking her ribs so her fingertips slid over her dripping folds. Meanwhile, Clymenus’ coaxing voice played in her ear. 

 _That’s it, baby girl, come for me._  

“Daddy!” The pillow caught the moan and muffled it. She barely heard it, her ears overtaken by a pleasant ringing. A searing burst of desire flooded her veins, her whole body seized up, and then glorious release. She directed a cry of ecstasy through the pillow, collapsing on the bed like her limbs were also just linen and cotton. 

Harpalyke never wanted to leave that place. Her eyes closed and her mind filled with white clouds, a calm hum filling her head. Unfortunately, she had to before she succumbed to sleep and risked one of the slaves finding her. She didn’t care about Epicaste’s stupid one, but Athansa was a different story. Harpalyke knew she wouldn’t speak of it—perhaps she wouldn’t think anything of it. Nevertheless, it was best to get back into the proper bed.

Feeling like she’d been strapped to sandbags, she rose from her father’s bed and dragged herself to her own. The haze of pleasure dissipated by the time she entered the room, and when she reached her bed, tears were already rolling down her cheeks. 

She didn’t bother wiping them away, so they soaked the hair near her temples as she lay down. She hadn’t the energy to pull the wool cloth around her, so she woke up only a couple of hours later, cold and still alone. 

*

Clymenus felt as useful and appreciated as one of the cattle just beyond the gardens. His eldest child, Therager, no longer a child at 27 years old, was everything a father could ask for: strong, athletic, clever. Yet Clymenus felt next to nothing toward him. 

Epicaste, on the other hand, loved both her sons dearly, as cold and cruel as she was to her husband and daughter. It had been her idea to visit during this particularly cold season instead of waiting for warmer days like normal people. 

Clymenus had to agree to the visit but on the condition that Idas stay home, for he couldn’t look at the boy’s face right now. Of course, without Idas, that meant Harpalyke wasn’t going, either, so Clymenus found himself at a large wooden table surrounded by relatives he really didn’t wish to be passing time with.

Therager was alright, and his wife didn’t speak enough to be considered at all, but they were also joined by Clymenus’ parents, Teleus and Philomena. Part, or at least half the reason Clymenus was strict with his family and kingdom was avoiding being like his father. The man had no spine, handing over Argos to Therager as soon as it was wise. And even worse, he let his wife speak freely.

As a boy, Clymenus had never enjoyed his mother’s presence. She was prone to losing her temper and shrieking at him and his brothers for no apparent reason. Words were never filtered through her brain; her hobbies were limited to criticizing and gossiping. Unsurprisingly, she and Epicaste got along perfectly.

The first half of the meal was pleasant enough. Therager updated everyone about battles taking place in lands Clymenus had only vaguely heard of. He didn’t keep up with any battles and conflict, since Arcadia was never involved.

The second half, not so much. When Clymenus called Therager’s slave for more wine, he learned there was no more. How appalling, he thought, instantly souring. Then his mother had to open her mouth.

“How is Harpalyke managing in Pylos? Have you visited her yet?”

Clymenus stared at her, momentarily dumbstruck.

“I suppose not bad if the king hasn’t sent her back yet,” she continued before taking a small sip of her wine.

Epicaste gave a faint, fake cough and sat straighter, sending a scathing glare at her husband. “Harpalyke is not yet married.” Her voice was sharp enough to cut marble.

A long crease appeared between Philomena’s eyebrows as she turned to her son. “Why ever not?”

“Alastor is preparing for battle, securing Pylos’ borders,” Clymenus said, hating how defensive he sounded, as if Alastor’s decision was his fault. To his aggravation, he was stone-cold sober. “He will come and fetch her when he’s proved himself a warrior.”

Therager seemed to accept this, but of course Epicaste was not finished with her prey yet. “Yes, add in the fact that Clymenus does not want this to happen for some unknown reason.”

“Well, she’s not exactly…suitable quite yet,” said Therager, and Clymenus felt a surge of fondness for the boy. When he spoke, his voice was just as cold as Epicaste’s.

“Indeed, son. I’d hoped she’d be ready earlier, but it seems like the proper upbringing is not…a priority.” He dragged out the word, relishing the thinly-disguised offense on his wife’s face.

A shroud of tension hung around them as they all inclined their heads and finished their meal in silence. “Father, Grandfather, please join me in the lounge,” Therager finally said. 

The men and women parted ways, the latter headed to their own lounge. It belonged to Therager’s wife, but she trailed behind the two older women, looking like a lost little girl. 

While Teleus and Therager resumed their talk of famous battles and warriors, Clymenus grew increasingly more restless. He couldn’t think of anything more uncomfortable than the dark of night mixed with a clear head. As king, he had to think so damn much, and absinthe was the best way to halt it enough to rest peacefully. 

Thankfully, unlike Neleus, Therager did not wish to be lounging very long. His infant child, he explained, cried often at night, heard all around the house. “And probably all of Argos,” he added with a sigh.

The other two nodded and thus, the evening festivity was concluded. On their way out of the lounge, Teleus pulled his son aside and muttered, “I wouldn’t want her to go, either.”

Clymenus had no clue what he was referring to, so he simply nodded and bade him goodnight. Therager didn’t have many bedrooms, so Clymenus was forced to share a bed with Epicaste. She was sitting by the window combing her hair when he entered the torch-lit room. He barely registered her presence, for the meaning of Teleus’ words had sunken in and filled him with rage. How dare his filthy father think of Harpalyke in such a manner?

The rage subsided a moment later, clearing his head. On the table where their clothes lie, a spot of blue caught his eye—Harpalyke’s doll. At least a day after she’d left it behind had been filled with crying and moaning about “missing” it. Clymenus resisted the urge to reach for it and try to pick up a faint trace of his daughter.

Turning to Epicaste, he spat, “Don’t you ever speak of me in such a manner again, do you understand me, wretch?”

Instead of snapping back like he would’ve preferred, she set down her comb and turned to face him. “I do not regret what I said,” she declared in a firm but calm tone. “This…fondness you have toward Harpalyke, it’s not normal, Clymenus.”

“I am not having this idiotic discussion again,” he scoffed, yanking the sheet off the bed. “You hardly have enough authority on what is ‘normal,’ Epicaste.” He reclined onto the pillow, closing his eyes.

She let out a huff and lie on the bed, making a production of turning away from him and cocooning herself in the sheet. This was just fine for Clymenus; he didn’t want to be around her, either. 

To keep his mind still and breathing relaxed, he thought of the one person he wanted to be around most of all. His beautiful daughter, his soft little nymph, eyes filled with love, legs opening eagerly for him, but why was this not working? His cock was stiff but the desire racing through his blood was tainted with something else.

 _You’re the filthy one_ , a snide inner voice told him. His heart did not slow, while something crawled under the skin of his hands. His daughter, his goddamn daughter. What had he done? 

The contents of his stomach whirred, bringing bile to the back of his throat. Beside him, Epicaste was fast asleep, lightly snoring. How soundly she slept after doling out such a verbal lashing. But she’d been right: Clymenus’ fondness of his daughter was not normal.

Wracked with shame, he stood and stepped out onto the balcony. It was quite cold, but he let it sting his skin rather than take a sheet. No more. He would touch neither Harpalyke nor absinthe. Well, absinthe wasn’t exactly the problem. He just had to keep control of himself, mainly by keeping away from her. Hell, he’d avoid that half of the house for the rest of his life if that’s what it took.

Gazing out into the vast sky, he prayed to the gods for resolve, but still he doubted they’d listen. Though it was worth trying before he’d do any more damage. 

A pang clenched his chest when he thought of what his promise entailed. No more of Harpalyke’s soft, curvy flesh, sweet pink lips or tiny cries, fingers digging into his back… The proper shame and resolve had taken over his mind, but his body was not acting appropriately. His erection wouldn’t subside, especially now that he’d recalled her spread-eagle, aching for him.

Well, not as if anyone could see in his head anyway, Clymenus reasoned with himself as his hand slipped under his tunic and gripped his cock. Closing his eyes, he pumped his fist back and forth under the moonlight. He tried not to picture Harpalyke, but after half a second, he gave up and immersed himself in the memory of her. Once he’d shot a stream of hot fluid over the edge of the balcony, Clymenus was much more relaxed, able to sink into the bed. Gods, he’d miss her.


	6. VII

There were too many people in Clymenus’ house. Despite them all being friends and family, he wanted them gone. Fortunately, there was plenty of absinthe, which everyone was indulging in. Even, he suspected, the women, for they could hear their raucous laughter all the way in the lounge. Outside, excited and agitated shouts from the boys filled the cool evening air.

In the lounge, Arcadia’s most powerful men happily spoke of their female conquests. For the most part, Clymenus tuned out the conversation around him until late in the gathering when talk shifted toward their daughters. Erastos’ girl had just gotten married to the farm owner in the next village. They raised their cups to toast the union. Clymenus swallowed a large gulp of absinthe and waited for the inevitable question. 

It came from the lazy mouth of Kleitos, father of Diodoros, the lamest and most cowardly boy in all of Arcadia. Besides Idas, Clymenus thought as bile crept back up his throat. 

“I never would have expected to be celebrating your girl’s 16th birthday here, my king,” Kleitos said, immediately capturing the attention. “Especially not with her looks.”

“She’s betrothed to Alastor of Pylos,” Clymenus said wearily, sick of spouting the same thing over and over. His parents had given him enough of a headache over it.

“Ah, but he is in battle, right, my king?” asked Erastos, who had heard the explanation many times. “I hear Pylos’ army has marched to the borders, awaiting Heracles’ men.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that as well,” said Charmion, owner of the prosperous vineyard at the foot of Mt. Nomia, and that turned into conversation toward conquests of Heracles and his men. Since Clymenus heard the very same at Therager’s less than a moon’s turn ago, his attention quickly disengaged again. 

He tried to keep it on the topic at hand, to keep it from straying to her. But it was particularly hard tonight, with all this absinthe in him and the image of his masterpiece only across the courtyard and up the stairs. She was done up in a silk dress and painted red lips, a mark of turning 16. Sixteen and already the fairest woman he’d ever laid eyes on and probably ever will. Erastos could brag all he wanted; none of the others had girls came close to Harpalyke.

No, no. Enough thinking about her. She would be married, too, and his mind would revert to normal. He stood up, nearly toppling over, and excused himself to the chamber pot. The others barely noticed, for they were all even drunker than he.

In the hallway, he made a strong effort to steer himself away from the stairs, not to go up there and catch a glimpse of her. To reward himself for his restraint, he allowed the mental image back in his mind while he pumped his cock, spilling into the chamber pot. This was easy; he’d kept away from her for many nights so far. Surely, he could do so tonight.

*

Harpalyke felt like a giant flanked by two gnomes. Eulalia was small and muscly while Cyrene looked like she didn’t eat regular meals. They were both a couple years younger than Harpalyke and married, which Eulalia wouldn’t shut up about. “We shall be very prosperous this year. The farm is looking quite fertile already.”

Cyrene, whose husband didn’t do much but drink and fight, kept her head down and quiet, braiding the yarn sewed to the head of Stateira III.

“I suppose we’ll be up to our neck in gold,” Eulalia continued. Unlike the other two girls, she didn’t touch the dolls, claiming married women were above such child’s play. Cyrene disregarded this statement as if it hadn’t been spoken. 

“You’ve said that already,” Harpalyke pointed out. “Neither of us actually care about your gold.” 

“You’re just jealous,” Eulalia scoffed but apparently just then realized she was talking to the princess of Arcadia. “My husband is far more handsome than Alastor of Pylos.”

Harpalyke was about to retort when she considered Eulalia’s words and deduced that she was right, if the Alastor she’d seen a few years ago hadn’t changed much. He’d been tall and gangly-looking, his voice cracking like a prepubescent boy’s despite being well into his twenties. Even at thirteen, she had hoped that he’d have a better transformation into man from then on out.

She finally settled on, “Well, I’m pretty enough for the both of us. And he’s not that bad. Your farmer looks like he’d gotten run over by a chariot as a boy.”

Cyrene snorted with laughter, and that was the end of the conversation. Eulalia wasn’t often struck dumb, especially by Harpalyke. As the other two continued to arrange the dolls in the large wooden house, Eulalia simply sat and stared at the wall. 

A well of pride lifted Harpalyke’s heart. Everyone thought she was slow, she knew, but she wasn’t completely ignorant to the way the world worked. She knew that girls had even less power as wives than daughters and Eulalia’s sharp tongue was her way of gaining some. And that the quality of the rest of her life following the wedding entirely depended on Alastor’s temperament.

There were other painful truths to know, like how wrong it was to allow her father to touch her. Once she had let Idas, who was young enough for it to be simple curiosity, touch her between the legs during a bath. Epicaste had found out and beaten them both with a ladle. Recalling that was always accompanied by an involuntary shudder.

But as wrong as she was, Harpalyke was not going to resist Clymenus, especially now when he hadn’t visited her in so long. What was he waiting for? Had he, too, decided it was wrong, that she wasn’t worth breaking the rules for? 

“She’s up in space again,” she heard Eulalia say to Cyrene, but her mind skipped over the remark, still focused on her father. What if she wasn’t good enough for him? Her stomach cramped up at the thought.

Luckily, Eulalia’s mother entered the room then and invited the girls to the courtyard for a cup of wine. Upon their arrival, it was clear Epicaste was none too pleased about this idea, but her need to present herself as the graceful queen outweighed the need to protest. After the younger ones had swallowed the sticky liquid in their cups, the female guests took their leave. Slightly woozy, Harpalyke went back upstairs to avoid her mother.

The shouts from outside and the lyre from her father’s lounge indicated that the male portion of the festivity was still in full-swing. Boys have all the fun, she thought grumpily as she climbed into bed. 

Warm from the alcohol, she pulled off her dress and burrowed under the sheet; the blanket wasn’t needed tonight. Eventually, the boys were called in by their fathers and the night grew silent. Thinking of dolls and marriage and her first day of being 16 years old, Harpalyke drifted off to sleep. 

An indiscernible amount of time later, she was woken by the sheet being pulled away, cool air bringing goosebumps to her newly-exposed skin. She opened her eyes, expecting to see sunlight through her window but it was pale moonlight, along with a head of thick, curly hair very close to her cheek.

A mix of nectar, absinthe, and sweat filled her nose as something soft and wet slid up her neck, bringing goosebumps of pleasure this time. Her father was leaning over her, kissing her below the ear. His hand was sliding over the curve of her waist, reaching for her breast. 

“Daddy,” she mumbled, murky with sleep. “You came back.”

“Of course I did, baby,” he breathed in her ear, fully atop her now. As he squeezed her breasts, he rubbed his pelvis against hers. “I’ll always come back.”

She let out a sigh of contentment, letting her legs fall open. Her father’s mouth moved from her neck down to her breasts, flicking his tongue over her nipple. A rough hand found the lips between her legs, slick with what she now knew was desire. 

“Such a beautiful woman you are becoming,” he said quietly, nipping the soft flesh of her stomach lightly with his teeth, causing her to giggle and squirm.

“Stay still.” He gripped her waist, kissing her just below the navel, pressing his mouth against her burning skin.

 _This is wrong_ , a voice said in her head, faintly resembling Epicaste’s. _Your behavior is shameful, disgusting._

The voice was clear enough, causing Harpalyke to stiffen, though she didn’t feel the shame the voice evidently wanted her to feel.

“Daddy…” It came out uncertain, but Clymenus paid her no mind, withdrawing his hands from the slick folds to lock it around her thigh and open her legs further. For a moment, as she looked on with her heart pounding, he simply stared at her most private spot. 

Then, slowly, he lowered himself between her thighs until his face was mere breath away from her throbbing pink lips. Though she was immensely turned on, a hot prickle of shame and discomfort passed through her limbs. She was embarrassed to have any man, let alone her father, so close. With his fingertips, he traced the slit, morphing the shame into further desire.

“Relax, princess,” he told her before ducking his head and replacing them with his tongue, dragging it over the slick lips. 

She let out a tiny whimper, her toes curling and her hips lifting up, hungry for more. She didn’t know anything could feel better than his hand pressing the soft button, but the sensation of his tongue against it was causing her to shake with pleasure.

Glancing in between her legs, she met his eyes, not only brown but mixed with green, reminding her of the mountainsides at the beginning of the warm season. Though they were tinged red and slit from drink, they gazed at her so intensely, taking in her reaction. He lowered them along with his lips, pulling her pink ones in between his, kissing them like he had her mouth.

Her head tilted back, her back arching, while her hand buried itself in the thick forest of his hair, pushing slightly on the back of his head. 

Clymenus leaned up, so she let go of his hair and curled her fists into the bedsheet instead. “You taste so good, baby. I could have you all night.” 

With the pads of his thumbs, he spread her open and slid his tongue between the folds. Harpalyke was writhing now, biting back cries of ecstasy, burning need swallowing her whole. 

“Oh, Daddy,” she cried as his tongue pressed against the tiny, nerve-filled nub. Her muscles locked in place, her head turned to the side, and her eyes opened to see a face between the curtain and the archway. One that looked exactly like her younger brother’s, his dark eyes wide with pure astonishment.

* 

After such rigorous activity from playing outside with the other boys, Idas had fallen fast asleep. But something had just awakened him and he couldn’t figure out what. The air was silent, all was calm, yet dread seized his stomach. The two cups of absinthe he’d had were threatening to re-enter his mouth. Why? It was the middle of the night; what could possibly—

Then he heard it. A faint cry from down the hall.

It was obviously Harpalyke having another nightmare, he reasoned. Why were his insides telling him something different? Why was his hand pulling back the sheets, his dirty, aching legs swinging over the side of the bed?

Again, that faint cry, but this one was odd, unlike any he’d ever heard. It couldn’t hurt to investigate, he supposed. Most likely he’d run into the dark slave on her way to console his sister, and she would send him back to bed.

Ankles creaking, he hobbled down the hall, rubbing the sleep from his heavy eyes. It was cold enough to keep him clear-headed but not enough to send him back huddling under the sheets.

_“Oh…”_

There it was again, coming from the direction of his sister’s room. The dark slave or anyone else was nowhere in sight, not exactly unusual at this hour. For sure Harpalyke was dreaming but not of something dreadful, apparently. 

Silently, he crept up to the archway and listened, making out only shifting and heavy breathing. A second later, small but heavy gasps floated into the hall. Was she crying? Idas had heard enough of her crying to know what it sounded like and this was not it. 

Now completely puzzled, he let his hand reach out and pull back the sheet, giving him a peek into the room. What he saw stilled his mind and released all the air out of his head, which brought the sensation of floating outside of his body.

His newly-16-year-old sister was sprawled on the bed stark naked, head thrown back. Her bare breasts quivered, her back arched. On top of her was a man, only his dark head of hair visible, nestled between her spread legs.

The scene assaulted Idas at once: he knew instantly that Harpalyke was engaging in something sexual despite his uncertainty about how sex really worked. Though he did know it was something with a man and a woman involving that spot being licked by that man—who in the hell was he and how did he get in the house? 

In that moment, the stranger spoke in a low, hoarse voice. “You taste so good, baby…”

No, no, _impossible_. That could not be who Idas’ mind jumped to between his sister’s legs. Not their father, the king of Arcadia, no, it couldn’t be. This couldn’t be real; surely Idas was dreaming— 

“Oh, Daddy!” 

A cloud of pure black was closing in from the periphery, but it did not consume his vision. He blinked, holding it at bay, and locked onto a pair of dark eyes from the bed. Harpalyke had spotted him, grasping the sheet from beside her and rolling over.

 _Run now!_ Thankfully his body heeded the command, darting away before Clymenus’ back turned. His heart felt as if it was augmenting, ballooning up his throat while its incessant beat filled his ears. He wouldn’t let himself listen for footsteps behind him, intent on reaching his room. 

Once he arrived at his bed, he climbed into it and froze when he saw his father’s silhouette through the moonlit curtain. Not for the first time in his life, Idas wondered if his father would actually kill him. The king was certainly violent enough. 

The figure pulled back the curtain and approached his son. His face was not twisted in fury as predicted but blank and sober, eyes narrowed.

“I was consoling her after a nightmare,” Clymenus said coolly, staring intently at his son, “and it wouldn’t be wise of you to say anything to the contrary. Remember, boy, that if I have power over all of Arcadia, I certainly do over you. Is that clear?” 

Idas’ stomach lurched at the truth of the statement, but he managed to nod his head. Looking not quite satisfied, Clymenus turned away and left the room. Idas was glad to see he’d gone right instead of left, to his room and not Harpalyke’s.

Now that the fear of imminent death was retreating, a new sensation was burning his mind but not anything close to logical. He tried to process the last few minutes, but his mind was stuck on the image of his sister playing over and over again, her pale, curvy limbs, her large breasts… Idas had never seen an older girl naked in the flesh. He recalled a time they shared a bath when they were very small, and his hand had ventured in between her legs. Never before had he considered her beautiful— 

 _Just what on Earth is wrong with you?_ A disgusted voice was hissing in his head, but it was faded, distorted. Meanwhile, his hand was slipping under his tunic as he collapsed onto the bed. Pulling the sheet over his shoulders, he gripped his erection. With fervency, he pumped his fist up and down, closing his eyes and letting the images take over his mind. The soft pale curves, the high-pitched cries, her heaving chest…

At first, he tried his hardest to block out Harpalyke’s face or replace it with another, but that turned out to be futile. As much as he hated to admit it, his sister was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen. His conscience wasn’t functioning at the moment anyway. Now his own chest was heaving as he upped the pace, teeth bared. Not a second later, hot fluid burst into his palm, leaking through his fingers. Gasping for breath, he twisted his hand into the cloth to wipe it off.

He lay on his back, waiting for steady breaths and clarity. Once it came, however, it punched him in the gut. With the clarity came shame. _How disgusting! Your own sister!_ Idas’ throat closed while his mind cruelly replayed the events of the past hour in reverse.

The images of Harpalyke splayed out, the sudden burst of arousal, his father’s words— _I was consoling her after a nightmare._ This was the scenario Idas was supposed to believe, but he’d seen something entirely different than consoling. The reverse sequence continued: the fear, the dark silhouette in the archway, rushing down the hallway, his heart beating relentlessly, his sister and father in that position…

It came to a crashing halt there, allowing Idas to fully grasp the horror of what he’d witnessed. His body was finally acting appropriately, bringing bile to his mouth, sticky with disgust. 

As it sank in, it became more obvious, as his father always had some strange interest in Harpalyke, much more than the other fathers. Many were invested in their sons while their daughters went largely ignored until betrothal and marriage. Clymenus, on the other hand, practically doted on his daughter, much to their mother’s annoyance. Did Epicaste know or suspect?

The astonishment eventually segued into anger. Clymenus dared to carry himself as supreme ruler over kingdom and family when he harbored such a sick perversion? Idas couldn’t get rid of the image of his head between plump thighs. _You taste so good, baby._ What had aroused Idas merely minutes ago now called the urge to vomit. As violent, unstable, and cruel as his father was, he would never have suspected this, even with all the signs.

Nearly all night Idas lay there, aching desperately to fall asleep. But of course, sleep was fickle, only coming when it wanted, which was not at all this night. It finally came just before dawn peered over the mountains.

For a blissful hour, Idas fell into blackness until one of the roosters let out a raucous crow, startling him awake. In the same second, the whole ugly mess came rushing back, dread coiling around his stomach and squeezing.


	7. VII

It was still well into the cold season, but the past week had been unusually warm. Not that it mattered to Harpalyke, for she’d been stuck inside with Epicaste and the slaves for most of it. Until the sixth day when Epicaste went to Eumene’s, leaving the children behind.

So far the day had been relaxing due to Epicaste’s absence albeit a bit dull. Idas had gone for a ride with the farmer Erastos and his two sons in the morning, but he was back before the sun had reached the highest point. Their father stayed in the lounge.

Harpalyke wanted to go outside. She was forbidden to go without Idas and he was nowhere to be found. Perhaps she could simply walk through the garden under her father’s watch. She’d never asked for such a thing before, but she was relatively confident he’d allow it.

Unfortunately, that confidence was too optimistic. Tentatively, she hovered in the archway to the lounge and called, “Daddy? May I walk through the garden?” 

“Sure,” he said blandly, not turning around. “Tell Idas to take you.”

“I can’t find him,” she informed him. 

Clymenus didn’t answer. Harpalyke knew this was his way of dismissing her, but she couldn’t stop herself from asking, “Can I stay here?” 

Her father turned to shoot her an annoyed glare. “Go find your brother, won’t you?” 

She felt her face flush as her eyes fell to the floor, stinging with tears. Crossing her arms, she pulled her lips into a pout.

“Don’t start, Harpalyke,” Clymenus snapped. “I’m not giving into this nonsense today, so you can either find your brother or stay inside.”

With an offended huff, Harpalyke stomped away. How dare her father reject her when it was she who should reject him? Though she no longer had the chance—ever since Idas had caught them, the late-night visits had ceased. She hoped they would start again eventually, though Clymenus’ attitude indicated that wouldn’t be the case. 

Mood now thoroughly soured, Harpalyke huffed and puffed across the courtyard, keeping her arms folded tightly over her chest. About midway through, Idas came bounding from out of nowhere and the pair nearly collided.

“Sorry,” he muttered, averting his eyes and turning away. Like his father’s, his behavior had also changed around her. Both were treating her like _she_ was the one who’d brought it all about.

However, she didn’t much care, grateful to have a way outside. She stepped to her right, blocking his path. “Take me to the garden, please,” she commanded.

He looked at her as if she’d asked him to carry her up Mt. Cyllene. “I don’t want to.” 

“Father says you’ve got to,” she lied, straightening her back with authority. 

Idas appraised her like he would a carcass on the side of the path, baked by the sun. “I honestly don’t care what Father says.” 

“Enough with this, Idas,” Harpalyke snapped with impatience, much like her father had with her. “Please take me to the garden _now_.”

“Did you not understand me, stupid?” Idas hissed. “I’m not taking you anywhere. Tell Father to take you himself. All you’ve just got to do is open your legs…”

“Shut up!” his sister cried, digging her nails into her palms. “Across the Styx with both of you! I don’t need either of you just to take me outside. I’m 16 now!”

“Good luck,” Idas sneered before flouncing off, but she barely heard him over her stomping feet and the ringing of rage in her ears. As soon as she exited the house, the blazing sun shot through her eyeballs, causing her to wince. She raised her hand to shield her face and continued through the hedges. 

She hadn’t an idea exactly where she was going, for the garden was in the other direction. That was not an option anyhow; her father would see her there. Her feet had evidently decided on carrying her away from the house.

Somewhere deep into the fields, the spindly hedges began to blur. Soon after, sparkling silver and white overtook the periphery. Good gods, why did this have to happen now? She was quite far from the house and she didn’t want to go back so soon, despite her body urging her to. Her feet stilled, leaving her standing between the hedges, unsure of what to do. The ringing was starting again and the sparkles were everywhere, zooming back and forth in front of her eyes.

Then Harpalyke had the idea to keep going until she reached the river, which was much closer than home. A splash of the cool water would help abate the headache. Unfortunately, she placed too much faith in the healing properties of the water. It did feel good against her burning skin but did nothing to the ache now enclosing her entire skull, overturning her stomach.

Falling to her knees, not registering them sink into the muddy riverbank, she leaned over and let loose a mixture of milk and stomach acid. The foul sight kicked up her nausea even more, so much so that she had to turn away, pressing her palms against her throbbing forehead. 

“Oh, gods,” she moaned, fighting off the stabbing pain the imminent fall into blackness. She had to get home right now, but just as she reached the tuft of grass next to the muddy bank, she collapsed onto it, crying and clutching her head. When the blackness arrived a few agonizing seconds later, she welcomed it, mind shutting off, lying limp on the grass. 

* 

“Where is she?” Clymenus barked into his younger son’s face, gripping his skinny shoulders and shaking him. 

“I don’t know!” the boy bawled, eyes stricken with fear. “Pan shall testify, I haven’t seen her! She simply ran off!”

“Why didn’t you stop her? You know she is not to be out there alone!” 

“She was too fast…” Idas’ gaze shifted to somewhere on Clymenus’ right side. The boy was a terrible liar. 

Seething with fury, Clymenus raised his hand and struck him across the face. The boy recoiled but didn’t yelp like he often did. Good thing, as Clymenus was very close to pummeling him. “Get those two dumb bitches from upstairs and _go find her_.”

He scurried toward the stairs as Clymenus turned his back, heading to the kitchen for absinthe. The plan had been to abstain from it until after supper, but the plan hadn’t accounted for his daughter behaving like an impulsive maniac. Once his cup was filled, he returned to the lounge to keep an eye out in the garden. That had been her first destination, after all.

It took Idas and the slaves a mere 15 minutes to find the girl. “What happened?” he demanded as he met them in the courtyard, her limp body cradled in the arms of Idas and the dark slave. 

“We found her by the riverbank,” Idas gasped, straining under the weight, the pathetic boy. “I think she’s got a headache.”

“Well, get her into bed, then,” Clymenus ordered before pointing at the light-skinned slave, who was uselessly trailing behind. “You. Fetch her what she needs and begin whatever ritual heals the headache.”

“Yes, my king,” the slave rasped, heading to the kitchen while the other two hauled Harpalyke up the stairs. Clymenus watched them for a moment, then went back to the lounge. There, he drank several more cups of absinthe, each brought to him by the male slave, along with supper.

Upon finishing his meal, Clymenus entered the courtyard, where he found Idas picking the remnants of his food. As his father approached, the boy looked up, biting his lip. Clymenus stopped a few feet in front of him and spoke in a low monotone. “When you’re done eating, get out of here. I don’t want to see your disgraceful face again today, is that clear?”

“Yes, Father,” Idas mumbled, lowering his eyes to his plate.

Clymenus did not spare him a second glance as he continued walking, though he felt eyes on his back as he ascended the stairs. Idas was no doubt wondering where he was going, what he was doing. That was unimportant—let the boy think what he wanted. No one would believe him if he dared voice his testimony.

In the hallway on the upper floor, he ran into the dark-skinned slave coming out of Harpalyke’s room, holding an empty cup in one hand, wet cloth in the other. “Leave her alone and let her rest,” Clymenus told her, but his voice came out less strong than he’d liked. He was not used to telling slaves how to care for the children, as was evident from the flash of confusion across her face.

Nevertheless, she simply nodded and went down the stairs. She was smart, this one; she likely realized what was going on. And she, like Idas, was not in a position to speak. That was one of the many upsides to being king: intimidation. Only Epicaste was immune, despite not being in the position to refute, either. That did not hold the bitch back from deception. He wouldn’t put it past her to spread his business all over Arcadia and beyond. 

Moving quietly now, Clymenus slipped past the curtain over the archway and approached his daughter’s bed, where she lie sleeping. All of the ill feelings toward Epicaste were forgotten for the time being as he came closer. What a vision of beauty his daughter was, eyes closed, mouth slightly open, breathing softly. 

He took a seat on the bed next to her flung-out arm and stroked the hair away from her face. Cupping her plump cheek, he leaned in and kissed her until she began to stir. 

“Wake up, my sweet nymph,” he whispered in her ear, caressing the side of her face.

She let out a tiny little sigh and opened her eyes. When she recognized him, a sleepy smile crossed her face, but her eyes were guarded. She hadn’t enjoyed him denying her earlier. No matter; Clymenus had the right words for her.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t allow you to sit by my side earlier,” he said softly, dragging his fingers down her cheek. “I don’t wish for anyone to learn of something deeper between us. I would hate to lose you, baby girl.”

As expected, she melted at his words, pretty eyes filling with joy and adoration. “It’s alright, Daddy.” He traced her sweet lips before moving down her neck to her chest, pulling the sheet from her breasts.

She inhaled sharply, but he disregarded it, closing his hand around a perfect round breast. With the pad of his thumb, he rubbed her nipple, causing it to stiffen. It was not alone; her whole body was lying rigid.

“Daddy, I don’t think we should,” she murmured uncertainly. A stab of irritation ripped through Clymenus’ chest, but he kept his face and voice neutral.

“Relax, baby.” He climbed on top of her, resting on his elbows and capturing her mouth in another long, slow kiss. Gods, how he missed the feel of her against him. Shifting to the side, he pulled the sheet further away, revealing her beautiful, curvy body in all its glory, glowing white in the moonlight.

“Daddy, I’m scared,” she whined, grating his nerves. If she’d just shut up and let him proceed, her fear would vacate in just a moment. But no, she had to complicate things by twisting away from his touch and grasping onto the sheet. Losing patience, he yanked it out of her hands and pinned her flat on her back.

“Do not disobey me, Harpalyke.” 

Her eyes were wide, filling with tears. “I just—I want to—” 

“Shh.” He placed a gentle hand over her mouth and stroked her cheek. He didn’t care what she wanted. He wanted her and he was going to play with her as much as he liked. As his cock pressed against her thigh, he sucked on the skin of her neck and reached between her legs. When his hand found the soft set of lips, he rubbed them, relishing her slick nectar against his fingers. Since his first taste, Clymenus had become addicted to this nectar, craving it day and night.

He pulled away to spread her legs and lower himself in between them until he was surrounded by her delicious musk. She was finally relaxing, prompted by his mouth roving over the lush slope of her inner thigh. By the time he dragged his tongue over the tender pink folds, they were dripping with sweet nectar. He licked it up, sinking his fingertips into soft flesh. This was exactly where he belonged, in his daughter’s bed with his face buried in her cunt. With his mouth, he made love to it, nibbling and sucking on the pink lips.

Her hips were rocking, eager for more. Digging his fingers into her behind, he tilted her up slightly, allowing him to slide his tongue in and out of her tight, wet hole. Small cries escaped the girl’s lips, her legs high in the air. “Oh, Daddy,” she cried, “don’t stop!”

Clymenus could feel her abdomen tightening; she was edging closer to release. Though like he’d said he could have her all night, they were on a time constraint. Not to mention Harpalyke’s cries were filling the room, sure to bring someone here. He took her whole cunt in his mouth, pressing his tongue flat against the hard nub nestled between pink skin. Gripping her hips, he rocked her roughly back and forth. Not a second later, she moaned and his mouth filled with that glorious nectar.

Coming up for air, Clymenus lie on top of her, took her head in his hands, and kissed her, enjoying the taste of her fluids mixing on his tongue. Down below, his cock was desperate for touch. He pushed his tunic aside as he sat up. With his cock in his hand, he rubbed the tip against her soft, pink flesh, sending jolts of desire down his legs. 

His eyes found her face, rosy-cheeked from exertion, glossy fluid smeared across her mouth. Nothing on Earth or in the heavens compared to her beauty. He wanted to devour her but it was she who was devouring him, sucking out all rationality and logic, replacing it with lust and passion.

“You are so beautiful,” he told her, drunk off her nectar. The urge to pull apart her folds and fit his cock snugly inside was too overwhelming, so he repositioned himself over her mound, tip grazing her stomach.

He noticed Harpalyke was gazing at it, never having seen an adult penis before. Taking her hand, he asked, “Do you want to touch it?”

Of course she nodded, woozy with orgasm, so he wrapped her hand around his shaft, guiding it up and down with his own. “This feels so good, baby.”

She smiled then and he felt his heart swell with happiness, thrilled to be with his princess at last, teaching her how to please him. Since this scenario was beyond Clymenus’ hottest dream, he came quite fast, gushing his seed onto his daughter’s stomach. She frowned at the hot puddle, so he pulled the sheet up to her neck, tucking his emptied cock away and kissing her mouth.

“Stay with me?” she pleaded in that precious, vulnerable voice when they’d broken apart.

“I can’t, princess,” he replied, running his palm over the hair above her forehead. “I wish I could.”

“Me too.” 

After another passionate kiss, Clymenus forced himself to stand up and leave his daughter alone. When he got to his own bed, the pungent stench of shame filled his head. He was supposed to stay away from Harpalyke, not feast upon her like a starving prisoner. Yet she was so alluring, so intoxicating, that it was impossible to resist her. She would be gone, married soon enough anyway. He couldn’t blame himself for enjoying her in the limited amount of time he had left.

His mind had justified his obsession to high heaven, but still the shame clogged his insides, making it difficult to fall asleep. Usually the absinthe helped him to sleep the whole night. On this night, it didn’t help a bit. Slumber was fragmented and filled with tossing and turning until sunrise.

*

When his father had sent him out, Idas had gone to the village, but none of the boys came to the abandoned house. Thus, he wandered up the stream, trying not to think of what his father was probably doing with his sister. He wished for Epicaste while simultaneously feeling like he didn’t deserve her for keeping such an awful secret from her.

It had been a long evening. Idas went back shortly after the sun sank behind the mountains, timing it well with supper. After that, the boys were likely to be out but Idas didn’t enjoy the cool air, even if it was warmer than usual this time of year.

This evening, he was sick enough of his mother’s absence and his father’s presence to disregard the cold and go out anyway. His father preferred him gone and the slaves were too busy tending to Harpalyke to concern themselves with him.

On the path to the village, Idas soaked in his surroundings to get the dysfunction he’d witnessed out of his head. He was tired of thinking about Clymenus and Harpalyke, of their sick relationship, of the guilt he fought for keeping it from Epicaste. He wished she and he could go far away and leave the crazy half of the family behind to fester in their perversion. 

When he turned around the heavily collapsed wall of the abandoned house, he saw that he was in luck: all three of the boys were there sans jar of sticky liquid. Though the crudely-made wine tasted repulsive, Idas was disappointed that there wasn’t any. He could’ve used something to drown the guilt. 

“Long time no see, prince of Arcadia,” said Timon. The use of his title was meant to be condescending, but Idas couldn’t recall a time he cared less what Timon had to say.

He held the other boy’s eyes briefly before glancing around at the others. “Speak now, brethren. Who’s had an encounter with a girl before?”

As he expected, Cleon and Diodoros gaped at him, but Timon didn’t look the least bit fazed. “Well?” Idas demanded. “Have you had one or not?”

Timon scoffed and shook his head. “Few girls in these lands are worthy of me.”

“How do you plan on getting experience, then?" 

“We’ve got time,” Cleon pointed out. “We should be preparing to be warriors anyway.”

“What brought this about?” Timon asked before Idas could open his mouth. “Did you catch your sister naked or something?”

Idas’ face went berry-red as the image of his naked sister on her bed assaulted him. “ _No_. I’m simply curious. If we want proper experience, wouldn’t it be wise to start now?”

They all exchanged glances. Cleon was intrigued while Diodoros’ face had a slight green hue.

“Alright, look,” Timon sighed after another moment of silence. “Now that Cyrene’s husband’s gone who-knows-where, she’s back to sleeping in her old bedroom. She sleeps in the nude and her bed’s not so thick, so her body is in full view from the hind window.” 

Now the others, including Idas, directed their astonished gazes at the oldest boy. “That’s your sister!” Cleon burst out, voicing the disgust Idas was feeling. Diodoros was positively grey now, about to flop to the floor.

Contrarily, Timon appeared bored and nonchalant, like he was discussing the weather. “She’s the only one around who sleeps in such a position. Now that the sun’s down, she should be fast asleep. Come, let’s see.” 

He glanced at Diodoros, eyes narrowed. “Except for you, you’re clearly not well. Go home and take a rest, will you?”

Diodoros nodded gratefully, backing away. “That I shall. See you tomorrow!”

Timon didn’t spare the other two a glance, walking in the other direction. Cleon looked at Idas before following. He didn’t look quite as enthused and Idas sure wasn’t, either. Aside from Cyrene being Timon’s sister, Idas had seen her many times playing in the courtyard with the other girls. She was only about 12 and skinny like a little boy, not physically appealing at all. 

Timon lived on the poorer side of the village, closest to the valley where all the vegetation died in the hot season. Half of his house was crumbling, which explained the wide window to Cyrene’s bedroom. Though his father consorted with the king and had decent gold, he spent it all on drink, leaving his wife and children to sleep on papyrus-thin beds near a pit of flames. They flickered over the girl’s exposed breasts, the rest of her body covered with huddled, sleeping toddlers.

The flames threw off so much heat, Idas could feel it from his position wrapped around an apple tree. Instead of looking at Cyrene like he was expected to, his eyes stayed on the fire as he realized how selfish his own father was, having fireplaces built only in the rooms he frequented.

“You like her?” Timon’s voice came through the branches from above, causing Idas to startle. “Her husband is as good as dead now. You can have her if you want.”

“Shh,” he answered automatically, showing a reluctant glance at the girl for sale. One of the fat-cheeked toddlers was rolling around, rubbing its eyes. 

“For the love of Pan, we’re going to get caught,” Cleon hissed, letting slip the apprehension in his whisper. 

“A pair of little ponies you two are,” Timon grumbled, but he climbed down. The others followed suit, and they made their way through the dark, quiet fields without interruption. 

However, inside his head, Idas was grappling with a potential major problem: if Timon was constantly peering into windows looking for girls, had he gone near the king’s? He was certainly the type to risk it just because he could, and he’d remarked plenty of times about Harpalyke’s “blossoming.” Just the thought turned Idas’ stomach. Not only at the prospect of Timon lusting after his sister, but what he’d find if he peered in on the wrong night. 

The boys parted ways by the ruin, Idas heading up the path. He was counting on silence to focus on breathing to calm himself down. What he got was the next best thing: a moving distraction on the horizon. What on Earth was it? It was approaching, the sound of hooves filling the air—a chariot. Who would be riding a chariot this late at night?

Many of the villagers were wondering that as well, creating a flurry of light and activity. Idas had no choice but to take the long way home through the fields, out of sight. He was about a flock’s distance away from the back door; the torch was floating through the lounge, but he could sneak in the kitchen and pretend—

As soon as he stepped out of the hedges, a deep, familiar voice rang out into the chilly night air, stopping him in his tracks.

“King Clymenus! It is I, King Neleus of Pylos and my son, Alastor!”


	8. VIII

The boasting voices of men floated through the window, causing Harpalyke to jerk awake. “Praise Pan! You’ve got enough livestock to feed the whole coast!” an odd but vaguely familiar voice boomed. He was standing on the north side of the fields, right next to the house from what it sounded like.

“Yes, I run things with a firm hand around here.” This sounded distinctly like her father. To whom on Earth was he speaking?

Harpalyke climbed out of bed and wobbled over to the window. Her headache was gone, she was pleased to discover, but dizziness and slight nausea remained. This intensified when she peered out and saw three male figures moving through the field, walking away. Clymenus was indeed one but the other two made up the pair she dreaded most: Alastor of Pylos and his father.

She lost balance backing away, slipping on her dress and crashing to the floor. Instantly, she was surrounded by dainty feet. “Oh, I do hope she’s alright,” said a kind voice from above. 

“She’s fine,” came her mother’s brisk reply. “Rise, Harpalyke.”

Stifling a groan, Harpalyke climbed to her feet, aided by a hand under her elbow. She turned to the source, expecting to see Athansa, but she found a pale lady with reddish curly hair and wide, amber eyes. Chloris, Alastor’s mother, who hadn’t passed much of her looks to her son.

“Good gods, Epicaste!” she exclaimed, grasping Harpalyke by the shoulders and eying her up and down as if she were made of gold. “She is just absolutely beautiful. Even more so than I imagined!”

 Epicaste directed a furtive grimace out the window before answering, “That she is, queen.”

“Those eyes!” agreed another red-haired woman standing next to Chloris. “And that silky hair!” 

“This is my sister, Pero,” Chloris explained, placing a hand on the other woman’s shoulder.

“Come, ladies,” Epicaste suggested a bit too brightly. “Let’s convene in my lounge, shall we? Slaves, fix Harpalyke up and send her to us. Wouldn’t want Alastor to catch a not-so-perfect glimpse of his bride, would we?”

“As if she could look less than perfect,” said Chloris, giving Harpalyke’s shoulders a squeeze before releasing her and following the others out.

Harpalyke’s stomach seized up at the word “bride.” It was her turn now for the rather abrupt transformation from girl to woman. Athansa carefully applied red stain to her lips while Zoe roughly gathered her hair and wrapped it with weaved branches of marigolds.

“Sit up straight,” Zoe hissed, yanking her shoulders back. Harpalyke was grateful that the slave was in charge of her hair, which was thick enough to withstand relentless tugging, while Athansa had her face. The other woman’s hands were calloused but gentle, calming her down almost completely.

That did not last long. Once the slaves fixed her up, they took her to a place she’d been maybe once in her life before: her father’s library. Since no one had touched anything in there for many years, Epicaste used it as a lounge for special occasions.

The room was tiny and bare, for Clymenus did not like to read, considering it a waste of time. Briefly, as a relief from anxiety, a twinge of jealousy pricked Harpalyke’s chest. She wanted someone to teach her how to read. Or even talk to her, really, other than feeding her diatribes on how to be the perfect wife. 

Now here she was, far from perfect, standing awkwardly near the cluster of chatting women. Her mother blatantly ignored her, laughing with Eumene. Newly joined was Epicaste’s sister, Pagratia. Rarely seen outside her home, Pagratia looked on, blank-faced, listening. If not for her crisp dress, pale skin, and hair perfectly twisted into a knot, she could’ve been mistaken for a slave.

“Come, Harpalyke,” Chloris finally said, patting the cushion beside her. The girl obeyed, blushing as everyone’s eyes swiveled to her. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d gotten so much attention from this many people and it was quite disconcerting.

“Smile, dear girl,” Eumene prompted, already boisterous from wine. “You’re so pretty, what a shame to waste it scowling.”

“She’s a bit nervous, I can see,” Chloris pointed out. 

Epicaste scoffed and turned to her goblet as if she could block out the sight of her daughter. “It’s time to grow up, Harpalyke. Marriage is a natural part of life.” 

Eumene nodded, the slaves and Pagratia remained blank-faced, and Pero cast her eyes away. Only Chloris was frowning. Epicaste, sensing she’d been too harsh in front of her very-important guest, smiled and offered her more wine.

Chloris gracefully declined. “My tolerance for drink is down the river these days.”

Out of all of them, Harpalyke decided she liked Chloris the most. She was the eldest, her reddish hair streaked with grey, her upper arms thick pads of skin. She was the type to lean into, falling into a hug. But Harpalyke was too old for that. She was 16 now, a wife.

The others quickly forgot she was there except for Pagratia, who was appraising her. Her eyes were inky black and seemed to beam directly through her. Harpalyke stared back, entranced, until Epicaste snapped her fingers loudly at the slaves, startling her.

“Make a fire outside.” She turned to the ladies, a slightly wicked gleam in her eyes. “She shall perform her sacrifice tonight.” 

“Have Clymenus and Neleus taken the cattle to the shrine of Poseidon?” Eumene asked.

“Oh, yes. They’ve got to catch Apollo before he takes the sun down.”

Harpalyke’s stomach was twisting into knots. What sacrifice did _she_ have to make if the kings were taking care of the cattle? She tried to recall Eulalia mentioning anything of a sacrifice before her wedding but nothing came to mind.

“Come, then,” her mother said matter-of-factly, clapping her hands. “Are you ready to turn this girl into the perfect bride?”

The rest of the ladies followed her downstairs and outside. Harpalyke marched stiffly between Chloris and Pagratia, trying in vain to swallow her thumping heart in her throat.

The evening air was cool, darkening blue light stretching over the fields. Around a blazing fire contained by a circle of stones, a group of younger girls were already gathered. Recognizable were Cyrene, Eulalia, and Pagratia’s small daughter. In her arms, Harpalyke spotted her doll, Stateira III. 

“Oh, no,” she moaned out loud, stopping short. Someone, likely Epicaste, prod her between her shoulder blades to get her moving again. She complied, fighting the urge to burst into tears. When the ladies finally joined the circle, all was still except for the fire for a tense moment before Epicaste cried into the air:

“Artemis, goddess of wisdom, hear my plea! Protect and guide this young bride as she enters marriage!”

“Artemis, hear our plea!” everyone but Harpalyke echoed.

“Please help her to serve her husband faithfully and bear his children in strength and love!”

“Artemis, hear our plea!”

“Tonight, we shall prove to you this bride is no longer a child and worthy to be wed!”

The girls began to sing, hoarse at first, since they were made to be quiet all day. Pagratia nudged her daughter to pass Stateira III down the circle. When the doll got to Cyrene, Harpalyke snatched it out of her hands and hugged it to her chest. There was no way around throwing it in the fire. She just had to do it.

Closing her eyes, she stepped forward and hurled the doll as hard as she could. By the cheering and chanting, she could tell she’d aimed correctly. She kept her eyes closed, not wanting to see the mangled, burning remnants of her most prized possession, and took a step back.

“Artemis, hear our plea! Artemis, hear our plea!”

Well, that hadn’t been too bad. Harpalyke felt her muscles relaxing as her eyes opened. Artemis had better appreciate this profound sacrifice. At least it was over, or so she thought until Epicaste thrust something else into her hands. With horror, she recognized it as Stateira II, somehow recovered from Argos. 

“Artemis, hear our plea! Artemis, hear our plea!”

Her head was growing fuzzy, the flames blurring into a mass of yellow. The chanting was overwhelming, the singing rapidly increasing in pitch. After another hard prod from Epicaste, Harpalyke was forced to approach the fire again.

 _“Artemis, hear our plea! Artemis, hear our plea!”_ It was blending together, shrieking in her ears. Her arms finally acted without her brain, throwing the limp bundle of rags into the flames. They immediately intensified, turning white-hot where they engulfed the foreign, shadowed mass.

Harpalyke could take it no longer. Her knees were threatening to give out and send her to the ground. Rather than let that happen, she turned around, covered her face, and ran back into the house.

“Harpalyke!” a shrill yell followed, but she disregarded it and kept going, stopping only in the dark, empty foyer.

Through her heavy breaths, she heard roaring laughter from the lounge across the courtyard. Of course the men were having a magnificently better time than she was. She fought the urge to run into her father’s arms, knowing that was no longer acceptable. Now he only held her when he visited late at night, which was also about to end.

Tears poured down her cheeks. Everything was different now and she had no control over any of it. Just as she was about to open her mouth and let loose her insides, she found herself surrounded by ladies again.

A hand gripped the hair at the back of her head and pulled, lifting it until she was looking at Epicaste’s irate face. “What on Earth is wrong with you? This is where you’re _supposed_ to prove you’re—”

“Enough!” came an unfamiliar bellow from their right. Epicaste let go of Harpalyke’s hair and turned to Pagratia. She must’ve been the one who bellowed, for everyone was staring at her in astonishment.

“Hmm, she seems bilious,” Eumene suggested, trying to diffuse the tension. “Perhaps she needs to be cleansed?” 

“I’ve done that once already and it didn’t help,” Epicaste sighed while Harpalyke recalled a particularly awful memory a few years back when some disgusting “master of medicine” rammed his finger down her throat, causing her to vomit into the river.

“She’s not bilious, she’s nervous,” said Chloris as Pero nodded along.

Epicaste let out another sigh and turned to her daughter. “This is simply part of a woman’s life, dear. Any woman worth marrying, anyway. Your husband will take good care of you. There is no one I trust more than Alastor to do so.” She shot a winning smile at Chloris. 

Instead of placing a hand to her chest and blinking in flattery like Epicaste when someone complimented Therager, Chloris simply nodded, clasping Harpalyke’s hand. The physical touch choked up the girl as a flood of indiscernible emotion filled her chest. Chloris noticed this and gently tugged her hand. “Let me soothe her down,” she told the others.

“Good luck,” Epicaste said, clearly relieved to be absolved of all responsibility regarding Harpalyke. And Harpalyke was just as glad to get away from her, especially when she continued, “Come, ladies, let’s go back to the lounge.”

Chloris led her new daughter upstairs to her bedroom. They sat on the bed side-by-side, quiet for a minute. The ladies’ voices floated in through the sheet over the archway, along with raucous shouts from the king’s lounge. Then Chloris stroked a rogue strand of Harpalyke’s hair behind her ear and spoke in a calm voice. 

“Alastor is thrilled to marry you. It’s why he waited all these years. And it has not everything to do with allying with the Arcadian kingdom.”

Harpalyke highly doubted that, but she kept quiet, eyes half-closed. She was sleepy now that the stress of burning her treasures was wearing off.

“Alastor will treat you well,” Chloris assured her, rubbing her back. “I’m not saying that because he’s my son. Neleus, with all his flaws, is a kind man. He has never raised a hand to us. Thus, Alastor will not lash out at you…”

 _Like your father does to your family_ , Harpalyke finished in her head. She didn’t believe this; all husbands hit their wives. Rumors went that the village merchant hit his every time she stepped foot outside of their house. But she was too tired to muster disbelief and questioning, her head dropping to her shoulder. Chloris’ hand on her back guided her into the older woman’s bosom. As her cheek met soft cloth and myrrh filled her nose, Harpalyke sagged into her. Chloris held her and rocked her back and forth, humming softly. 

Harpalyke must have fallen asleep like that, for when she opened her eyes, she found herself under her sheets, nearly blinded by morning sunlight streaming through the window. She was blessed with a few seconds to herself, her stomach twisting up as she remembered the events to come. Tonight, she would climb into the Pylian chariot with Alastor and leave Arcadia behind. The concept was so surreal she couldn’t envision it, not even the chariot itself.

Before any further thought on that, she was surrounded by chatting ladies again. Epicaste had her fake-cheerful expression on her face, though a trace of authenticity could be detected. Probably thrilled to be rid of me, Harpalyke thought as she sat up and rubbed her eyes. 

“Come on, to the bath with you, then,” her mother said, placing a sheet around her shoulders. Keeping it wrapped tightly, Harpalyke climbed out of bed and moved in tandem with the ladies. They dragged her down the hall to the bathroom, where a large tub filled with water waited for her.

“Alright, climb in.” The sheet was yanked away, exposing her naked body to the others. Quickly, she crossed her arms over her chest. The cold pricked her skin, raising the fine hairs across her whole body. Her head turned, adding a curtain of hair for extra coverage.

“Don’t be ashamed, darling,” Chloris coaxed, placing that soothing hand on the girl’s back. “We’re all ladies here. We’ve all got the same parts. Isn’t that right, Pero?”

Pero nodded, eyes straying out the window. “Indeed. Ladies only.” 

“Until tonight,” said Eumene, and everyone shot her appalled glares.

“Must you be so crass?” Epicaste snapped.

Harpalyke didn’t catch Eumene’s response, for the pleasant, warm water enveloped her as she sank into the tub. She enjoyed one second of bliss before she picked up Epicaste’s scathing retort: “I really do not wish to think of a man looking at my daughter’s naked body, if you please.”

“Now Epicaste, it’s part of the process,” said Chloris reasonably, sprinkling scented powder into the tub. “Every bride goes through it. Alastor would be honored to see her in her natural form.” 

At these words, Harpalyke’s stomach was clenching again. Alastor was supposed to be the first man to see her naked, but he would not be. Her father had taken that place. Trying to keep her face from falling glum, she looked down at her distorted toes through the water, hugging her knees.

Epicaste let out a huff, audibly refraining from arguing with her guest. Thankfully, the flock of women left Harpalyke alone then, so she could bask in the last moment of peace she’d have for a long time. 

* 

Of course Idas was stuck at the table of children even though he was nearly 14 years old. For the first half of the feast he’d been quite bitter about it, until Therager showed up and now that was all Clymenus would talk about. Therager this, Therager that, the strongest in the land, while Therager himself glowed with pride.

His wife was seated at the end of the table, a seat or two away from Idas, since she was 14 and there was no room for her at the ladies’ table. She was small and wispy, easily overshadowed by her husband. The rest of the table consisted of Harpalyke’s dumb girlfriends, a couple of noisy little boys, and Diodoros. 

Idas hated the part of himself that wished to be in Therager’s place, but at least Diodoros was a good distraction. He told Idas the tale of Timon getting caught by his father peeking into his sister’s window, earning him a flogging heard throughout the entire village. Both boys busted up laughing, which went unnoticed by the rowdy children and adults.

Once everyone had feasted until they could barely move, they went outside, joining the rest of the crowd around Neleus’ chariot. The flutes were playing, the girls were singing, and many shouts and cheers filled the air. Idas and Diodoros were separated somehow, and the former didn’t bother seeking out the latter—too much chaos. 

The chariot was done up in draping ferns and large palm leaves like the rest of the house, enhancing its majestic appearance. It sat unoccupied, waiting for the bride and groom. Idas was about to move to a better angle to view the inside, never having seen such a grand chariot before, but in that second, someone seized his arm from behind. 

“Oh, there you are—” Idas said as he turned around, expecting to see Diodoros. His voice cut out as he found himself facing Therager. 

“Greetings, Idas,” he said solemnly.

“Greetings,” Idas answered with trepidation. He couldn’t remember the last time his brother had spoken to him directly. Therager usually didn’t give him the time of day, even during the family’s visits to Argos. 

“Listen, brother, I’ll make this short,” he said in Idas’ ear, leaning in and placing a hand on his shoulder. “Father has told me of your misadventures. I advise you to stop partaking in such silly stunts and start training for battle. Arcadia is not under threat, but who’s to say that will last forever?”

“Uh, right,” said Idas, hoping the question was rhetorical.

“And do not forget, you are a reflection of all of Arcadia, of King Clymenus’ rule. It is best not to further disgrace him.”

Idas looked into Therager’s eyes, dark like his own yet somehow different. As if they weren’t his brother’s anymore but some shared, distant relation. He wanted to scoff and tell him that King Clymenus was the disgrace and exactly how. He pictured his brother’s face contorting with disgust, trying to feign disbelief. But even Therager knew there was something wrong with their father, though he’d die before admitting it. They all did.

For a second, they simply stared at each other, the cheering reaching deafening proportions, saving Idas the necessity of a response. Therager’s eyes focused on a spot behind him, his full attention captured in an instant.

Idas turned and saw two figures, male and female, gliding through the archway. On the right was his father, blank-faced and back straight, holding the arm of a voluptuous female figure in a purple dress. Idas knew it was Harpalyke under that veil, but he chose not the think of her, since his regard of her was confusing at best. Even now, he couldn’t keep his eyes from roving over her figure. A man’s hand, presumably Alastor’s, grasped her wrist. Idas couldn’t see him through the roaring crowd.

Chaos had taken over the scene: only the walking pair were quiet and calm. By the time they climbed upon the chariot, Idas was worried the crowd would swallow him whole. Writhing bodies were everywhere, now at least moving in unison behind the chariot. The _clop clop_ of hooves added to the din. Up ahead, Idas spotted Therager pulling his wife by the waist as if she were a stray sheep. 

“Idas! Hey, Idas!” Diodoros’ voice was calling from somewhere. Idas whipped his head around, but the boy wasn’t there. Then he appeared on his other side, sweaty and out of breath. 

“Lost you there for a second. Look, there’s Timon and Cleon. You think we should catch up with them?”

No wonder the crowd was so thick; nearly all of Arcadia had joined their path. The princess marrying was a huge event, after all. 

Idas shook his head. “Not right now.” 

Diodoros looked relieved. Idas knew he didn’t want to pass more time with Timon and Cleon than absolutely necessary.

As the two boys walked side-by-side, the strangeness of it all pervaded Idas’ mind. He realized that the majority of Arcadia believed that King Clymenus was a solid ruler, the embodiment of strength and virtue. Only his youngest son knew he had such an ugly secret. Well, so did his daughter, but she obviously didn’t consider it ugly. Not even the queen knew and for that, a wave of guilt and shame coursed through his chest.

However, as the chariot crossed over the wooden bridge over the river and out of Arcadia, Idas also realized it was over. Whatever sordid affair going on between father and daughter had effectively ceased.

For the first time in many days, Idas felt the tight rope around his lungs slightly recoiling, letting his heart lift with hope. Maybe now that Harpalyke was gone, his family would return to normal. Clymenus would always be an explosive drunk with a low opinion of his youngest son. He would probably take some village girl to bed, causing friction with Epicaste. But the girl would not be his daughter. Thus, Idas was temporarily absolved of the burden of the secret. He could simply push it out of his head.

*

Two days without her. This is fine, Clymenus thought every time he brought his stone cup to his lips. The absinthe did not blur his need, his excruciating ache, but still he drank for two days straight, awakening with a headache from alcohol and heartache remembering she was gone. She visited his dreams only once, dressed in white and begging for him. _Daddy, please_. He’d woken up bathed in his seed. 

That was this morning, he realized. It was hard to keep track of time when the light of his life was getting farther and farther away. He swallowed the rest of the absinthe and set the cup on the small table next to his throne. His vision was hazy, the skin of his face burning hot. 

His intended destination was his bedroom, but the one he ended up in was not his own. He went straight to the bed, hungry for the scent of his sweet girl, and found that the sheets had been changed. _Damn those stupid slaves._

In vain, he pressed the pillow to his face. By gods, it did smell like her, bringing back glorious memories of her soft flesh, her sighs in his ear, her delicious musk— _no_. 

It was over; she was gone, how it should be. She was Alastor’s—no, he couldn’t bear the thought quite yet. One step at a time. She was fulfilling her duty as a woman. He was fulfilling his duty to Arcadia, being a proper king and father. 

He slammed the pillow back onto the mattress and stood up, his resolve holding fast. His silly urges had to be stuffed deep inside of him, never to resurface. The kingdom was his first priority. 

Once his eyes fell to the empty bed, his resolve vanished in an instant. His mind, without prompt, conjured the image of his daughter lying on her back, peering up at him through her heavy eyelids. His nerves tingled, recalling the feel of her thick, silky hair against his palm, his lips against her sweet, full ones, her plump cheeks flushed red. Her soft skin under his fingertips as he ran his hand down to her chest, gripping her luscious, full breasts, burying his face into her neck. Then of course, the curve of her hips, her thick thighs parting, revealing slick, pink lips just for him, his perfect little nymph. Where else on Earth would he find such a treasure? Nowhere— 

Enough. These thoughts had to stop. As Epicaste loved to point out, his infatuation with his daughter wasn’t even close to normal even if he hadn’t acted on his passion, which he had and his son had discovered it. Not like the boy would tell but the knowledge was enough…

Clymenus turned and walked out of the room. Now he was going to bed, yes, there he went. The absinthe was fading, drawing out any energy left in his blood. The pillow was soft against his head, the sheet comforting, alleviating the sorrow enough for him to fall asleep.

Unfortunately, this bout of relief didn’t last long. Only an hour later, or so he guessed, his eyes snapped open and refused to stay shut. His mind was whirring, dread swirling around in his stomach.

This was absurd. He’d made it two days without her, so he could definitely continue. This was good for him and good for all. Arcadia would have an ally in Pylos. Harpalyke would be tamed by marriage. Everything was as it should be. Why were these hard facts so unconvincing?

Because facts didn’t mean anything in the face of love and desire. All he wanted was his precious girl, the one person in all of Arcadia, possibly in all the world, who adored him, whose pretty dark eyes filled with love at the sight of him. Cruelly, his mind replayed all the pleasant encounters with her on his lap, kissing him on the mouth, that sweet smile. 

The images prompted him out of bed and down the hall to the male slave’s quarters. As expected, he was sleeping, but Clymenus shook him awake. “Take me to Pylos,” he commanded once his eyes cracked open. “I’ll be waiting in the chariot.”

The slave’s eyes widened before he caught himself. “Yes, my king.” 

Clymenus left him, heading downstairs and outside, where the cool air enveloped him, awakening his senses. Logic was still hazy, overruled with a different sort of resolve. He could not justify it to himself, nor did he want to. The images of his eager daughter persisted—he would not let Alastor have her. 

He climbed into the chariot and sat patiently waiting under the stars and full moon. Already his stomach was soothed, the tension leaving his muscles. Soon he’d have his precious jewel back. He’d been a fool to let her go.


	9. IX

Pylos turned out to be really, really far from Arcadia. Harpalyke had underestimated just how far. Two whole days passed in the chariot before Alastor informed them they were only halfway through the journey. 

He knew the entire way, apparently. Every village they passed, no matter how small, he could name and tell a story for. Except for the last two, she noticed. She debated on asking him, but she knew she couldn’t speak, so she kept her hands folded in her lap, mouth closed.

This seemed to be slightly unnerving for Chloris, for she squeezed the younger girl’s hand every so often. “Are you alright, dear?” 

Hapalyke nodded, feeling a bit like she was a part of some tale being told to her older self. Her surroundings were being recorded in her head, but her mind wasn’t functioning otherwise.

Her other hand was continually held by Alastor. He did not address his new wife, but every so often, she saw him watching her out of the side of his eye. She hoped he wasn’t regretting marrying her. What if Idas was right about no one truly wanting her?

“Alastor,” she blurted out of nowhere. “What is this village called?” 

He turned toward her and even though he was still sort of odd-looking, he’d definitely turned into a man in battle. She swallowed hard as he answered, “I’m not sure. For some reason, I can’t seem to recall this area.”

“And this lake?” She looked to her right, past Chloris, where clear water stretched alongside the path.

“Not that either, I’m afraid.”

Harpalyke fell silent again, but Alastor was still turned toward her, appraising her. “You ask a lot of questions,” he stated after a moment. “You are curious.”

Her heart picked up, beating against her lungs. She swallowed hard again, wondering if she’d made a colossal error by speaking out loud. But then Chloris patted her hand and spoke up. “Yes, I was the same way, as your father found out rather quickly.”

Neleus, who had taken a breather after exchanging stories with Alastor for two days straight, kept facing forward. However, the corners of his lips lifted slightly at his wife’s words, likely recalling the memory of their own chariot ride. 

Alastor gave Harpalyke his own small smile before turning his gaze back to the mountains ahead. It was too brief and her mouth wasn’t working, so she had no chance to return the smile. Hopefully, he’d look at her again soon so she could.

Meanwhile, her mind was still trying to sort the previous encounter. No one in this family was concerned that she’d spoken out of turn. None of them directed any glares or told her to shut up. Both of her parents would’ve been furious if they’d known what she’d done, but Alastor and Chloris continued to hold her hands and the journey continued on as normal.

Chloris had assured her that Alastor would never hit her, but Harpalyke hadn’t expected him to be this calm. Though he’d been in battle, he didn’t seem to have as much aggression as Clymenus or Therager or even Idas. He has to be putting on a show, he thought, remembering Eulalia and her plight. That plight would soon befall her; she had to keep that in mind. 

Yet he hadn’t seemed to be the least bit bothered by her questions… Harpalyke was good at detecting annoyance in men after years of her father’s unpredictability. She was sure Alastor hadn’t had any for her. Not yet, anyway— 

“What is that up ahead?” Alastor asked, pointing to a dark mass in the path. It was small but they were rapidly approaching it. Soon they were able to make out a horse and chariot blocking the path entirely. Seated in the chariot was a silhouette with dark, curly hair.

“Why didn’t he just pull to the side?” Alastor’s question went ignored, for the answer was about to become clear. The chariot was right in front of them now, and to Harpalyke it looked very familiar, distinctly Arcadian…

“By gods!” Neleus exclaimed. “It’s Clymenus!”

The thought of meeting her father out here was incomprehensible, yet there he was, complete with slave and chariot. Oddest of all, his face had no expression. 

As soon as Neleus’ horses fell still, he was out of the chariot, dashing over to the other king. Clymenus also climbed down, meeting Neleus in the middle of the path.

“Is everything alright, king?” asked Neleus as they were joined by Alastor. Harpalyke sat still, unsure what to do and again not understanding the situation until Chloris gave her a gentle tug.

“Come, let’s stretch our legs.” They hoisted themselves out of the chariot and landed on the other side, facing the lake. Clymenus’ mumbled answer was audible but not discernable. 

“Want to go closer?” Chloris asked, gesturing to the calm sheet of water, reflecting the mountains and setting sun.

Harpalyke nodded. Just as they were about to step forward, Alastor appeared, looking like he’d been knocked out and re-awakened in a place he’d never been before. His eyebrows were joined and his steps hesitant.

“What’s happened, son?” Chloris prompted.

“He…has requested Harpalyke,” her son replied slowly. 

“What for?” Harpalyke blurted, her nerves firing up again. Had she done something wrong? No, she couldn’t have, for Alastor and his family seemed just as puzzled as she. Taking his hand, she let him lead her around the chariot, where the two kings stood a few feet apart, facing each other. After silence thick with tension, Neleus addressed Alastor.

“King Clymenus has requested his daughter return to Arcadia.”

“I don’t understand,” Alastor said to a stone-faced Clymenus. “Are we not suitable, king?”

“Of course you are, my dear boy,” Clymenus replied flatly. “She is simply not ready yet.”

“Yes I am, Daddy!” Harpalyke protested, taking a step closer to Chloris as if the woman could protect her now.

“Get in the chariot, Harpalyke,” was his cold response.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Chloris said, placing ahand on her back and pressing lightly. 

As they moved toward the Arcadian chariot, Alastor asked, “My king, are you quite sure this has to be? I don’t expect her to be perfect to start—”

Neleus held up a hand. “Enough, Alastor. We are not yet in Pylos. Thus, King Clymenus still has the right to determine the fate of his daughter.”

Harpalyke was right in front of the steps of the chariot, but she couldn’t make herself climb upon it. Chloris enveloped her in one last hug. “Be well, sweet girl,” she muttered in her ear.

Alastor stood frozen, looking dejected, as his father and Clymenus embraced. “Farewell, king.”

Tears sprang to Harpalyke’s eyes; she couldn’t believe this was happening. This was all wrong. She was still in her purple dress. She was supposed to be still aboard that chariot with Alastor en route to Pylos. But they were leaving without her, leaving her behind.

Clymenus turned and saw that she was still standing in the same spot, unable to move. “I said _get in the chariot,_ Harpalyke.” 

This snapped her into motion, scrambling up the wooden steps. Clymenus followed suit and commanded the slave to turn around. The slave obeyed, taking rein and guiding the horses in a loop. How could her father just scoop her up and take her away? The gravity of the situation was finally sinking in. She wouldn’t hear the stories of the rest of the villages, wouldn’t see Pylos, wouldn’t lie with Alastor, wouldn’t be the new daughter of his parents…

Without thinking, she reached over and tugged her father’s arm. “Daddy, I am suitable for Alastor, I’ll be good, I swear!”

“Be quiet,” her father growled, but she was too worked up to heed the warning in his tone.

“But why have I got to go back? I’m Alastor’s now—!”

Her declaration was cut brutally short by Clymenus’ hand slamming against her face, causing her to jerk back and yelp in pain.

“I said shut up, you disobedient brat,” he hissed, raising his hand again.

Harpalyke flinched, but thankfully her father lowered his hand and turned away. Clutching her throbbing cheek, she tried to blink back the tears pouring out. Sobs tore through her throat and she sank her face into her hands to stifle them. Her father had never raised a hand to her; that was Epicaste’s style. Everything was collapsing and Harpalyke didn’t understand why.

She cried and cried while her father made no move to comfort her as the _clop clop clop_ of the horses carried them back to Arcadia. Her marriage, which had morphed from an endeavor of dread to an adventure, was over before it even started.

*

No, no, this was going all wrong. Clymenus and his princess were supposed to be riding off into the night, hand-in-hand. Instead he sat stiffly, head pounding from lack of alcohol, watching his daughter cry into her hands. His own hand twitched, aching to strike her again until she shut up, but that would only make things worse. When Harpalyke cried, she _cried_ and as he learned through Epicaste’s error, coercion didn’t stop it.

He placed a hand on her shaking shoulders. Right now, he had to play the role of patient father. “Shh, come here, baby.”

She lifted her head up, revealing puffy red eyes and tear-stained cheeks. He saw the paint had been washed away, reverting her from Alastor’s bride back to his sweet, fresh-faced daughter. Good—she belonged to him, not Alastor.

Carefully, he slid his hand across her left cheek, attempting to wipe away the tears, but she winced. It was that cheek he’d struck. He noticed belatedly the swollen crescent just below her eye. How could he have marred such a beautiful face, his own perfect creation?

Worse yet, his girl was watching him with wary, leaning back almost imperceptibly, keeping her distance from him. No, this was not good; Clymenus had to fix this. 

He cupped the other cheek and brought his lips to the swollen mark, brushing them against it. This time she didn’t wince, though her eyes filled with tears. “Shh, baby,” he whispered, kissing them and tasting the salt on his lips. His hand moved to the back of her head, pulling her closer. “Come here.” Gods, and to think he’d almost let her get away.

At last she buried her head into his chest, melting into him. He wrapped his arms around her, inhaling the earthly scent of her hair as he held her close. “I don’t want to hurt you, princess. I love you so much. I only hope you love me, too.”

“I do, Daddy,” she sniffled, shuddering as she released a heavy breath.

“That’s why I took you back, because I can’t bear the thought of you no longer near me. I hope you’re not upset with me, my sweet girl.”

“I’m not, Daddy,” she mumbled, eyelids sinking closed. Her hand bunched up his tunic and pressed it against her cheek, her shoulders curling into his chest. He was overcome with such a love for her, it nearly choked him up.

All through the valley he held her, content at last. It was he who could take the best care of her, not that idiot Alastor. Epicaste’s reaction upon finding this out was irrelevant. That bitch had her chance and lost it. She’d only been good for birthing his precious creation.

Harpalyke soon fell fast asleep, draping her limp body across his lap. The urge to slide his hand under the purple dress and run it over soft skin was overwhelming, but Clymenus refused to let his discipline lag again. He had to keep control, be back to the calm, rational king before they reached Arcadia. Soon the time would come when he could truly have her, now that she was his for good. 

*

Though Idas was aware of the darkening sky, time seemed to slow down. The air was clear, which his lungs and mind thoroughly appreciated. At home, the tension balled in his throat, restricting his breath.

Not here—the stream’s soothing sounds and crisp evening breeze served as healing agents. First he’d gone to the abandoned house, disappointed when he’s not seen the village boys. Now he was glad for that; as it turned out, he was in desperate need of peace and quiet.

It wasn’t as if the inhabitants of his house were loud. In fact, he almost wished that was the case. Then he wouldn’t have to hear the screaming silence fill his father’s absence. Privately, Idas was pleased with it. It was a blessing for him and should’ve been to his mother as well, since all he did was holler at and hit her. But Epicaste was distressed at his sudden disappearance, pacing about with worry etched into her face. Idas didn’t understand why.

The stream understood his need. Unquestioning, it continued to flow over the rocks, capturing glints of golden sunlight. The feeling of the tension seeping out of his body was quite nice, one he could get used to. Unfortunately, it lasted for under 10 minutes.

Further up the stream, he spotted something moving on the horizon. Déjà vu hit him abruptly, bringing up the memory of Neleus’ chariot a few days before. _Was_ that Neleus’ chariot again returning Harpalyke? Just what Epicaste needs, he thought, heading toward the boulder to climb atop it for a better view. Halfway there, it became unnecessary, for Idas was able to discern to whom the chariot belonged: Clymenus.

Idas whirled around, trotting back the way he came. Once he reached the hedges, he broke into a run. He didn’t need his father’s hassle about being outside for no apparent reason, idle. 

The wheels creaked along the path, filling his ears as he ran. An eternity later, he burst through the back entrance of the kitchen, clutching his knees and keeling over. 

“What’s with you, boy?” one of the slaves called in a bored tone from the direction of the hearth.

“I think—the—king is back,” he breathed.

Epicaste must’ve been nearby, for she immediately flew into the kitchen. “You’ve seen the chariot?”

“I think so…”

“Take him upstairs,” she commanded the slave, much to Idas’ aggravation. He let himself be dragged upstairs but crept back down to the foyer once he was sure she was back across the courtyard. 

“What did I tell you about lounging in the courtyard?” came his father’s demand. “You have more than half the space in this house.” 

“Where were—?” His mother’s clipped voice cut short before it raised in pitch. “What is _she_ doing here?”

Idas frowned. Had his father brought home a lover? It would not be the first one, but never would he parade one across the courtyard.

Clymenus hadn’t answered, exacerbating Epicaste’s fury. “He rejected her, didn’t he? She acted up, didn’t she? _Did you_ , you filthy little sow?”

A loud slap, Clymenus’ roar, and a loud, female yelp rang out all in the same moment. But wait a minute, that wail was uncannily familiar, growing louder as footsteps advanced closer. Idas didn’t have time to move, standing frozen and dumb as a female figure hurtled into the foyer and flew past him without seeing him. 

Pale skin, long purple dress, disheveled, wavy hair—instantly he recognized Harpalyke. What wasn’t clear was why she was there and not on her way to Pylos.

Epicaste voiced a similar sentiment at the top of her lungs. “Why did you take her back? You should have left her there!”

“Bite your tongue! Awful wretch, how can you feel so little for your own kin?” 

The queen took a different approach, speaking calmly this time. “How did you know he would instantly reject her?”

Silence followed her question, during which Idas’ heart plummeted into his stomach. Clymenus had left early in the morning of the second day. That wasn’t nearly enough time to receive a signal from Neleus.

“Clymenus,” Epicaste prompted sharply. “How did you know Alastor would reject her so fast?”

“You dare question me? Away with you!” Another smack echoed around the courtyard.

She hissed and clomped away, also heading to the foyer. Idas had enough sense to flatten himself against the wall in the shadows, but she, like Harpalyke, didn’t take in her surroundings. He wondered if she’d march straight to her daughter’s room but she passed it, likely going to her own. Idas kept still, praying his father wouldn’t come this way. He didn’t, retreating to the throne.

Idas’ organs were freezing to ice, panic flooding his chest. Alastor had not rejected Harpalyke. Clymenus had taken her back. Why? Idas knew why. The desire had consumed his father. Stomach lurching, Idas dashed up the stairs. 

From Harpalyke’s room came tiny, intermittent whimpers. She was crying herself to sleep. Let her cry, her brother thought savagely. It was because of her he was in this position. Though he knew deep down that she was less to blame than Clymenus. What the king wanted, he took.

Idas would keep this secret no longer. Epicaste would likely figure it out eventually, but he couldn’t stand allowing her to remain ignorant. Clymenus had clearly gone mad. Therager had spoken once of the sirens, creatures who lure men to their deaths. Harpalyke was not so different.

Epicaste was sitting on the side of the bed, mumbling to herself as Zoe brushed her hair. “…don’t know what’s happening…is he thinking at all of Arcadia?” 

She fell silent when she spotted her son standing in the archway, trying to muster up the courage to pry open his mouth. “What is it, son?”

No, he could not tell her. Somehow appearing smaller and paler, Epicaste was already close to shattering. No—the longer he waited, the worse the fallout. She was his _mother_. It was she he had to protect above anyone else. 

Also his sister, but was his sister worthy of protection? No doubt she’d need it when Epicaste found out the truth. No, his sister had their father. His stomach lurched as he recalled the night he’d discovered them lying together.

“Idas?”

“Mother.” His voice sounded tinny and distorted through the blood rushing in his ears. “I’ve got to tell you something…”


	10. X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took 100 years to get this chapter up. Hopefully the smut at the end will make up for it.

Epicaste, as expected, did not take the news of her husband lying with their daughter well at all. Not at first. 

Idas was expecting her to fly to her feet and storm to Harpalyke’s room in a rage. What she actually did was much worse. Miserably, Idas watched her sink her head into her hands and dissolve into tears. Even the slave, Zoe, didn’t know what to do. They sat on either side of Epicaste, watching the queen sob and shake.

After a long while, or so it seemed, she sat up and sniffed. The slave, grateful to be useful again, snatched a cool cloth from the table by the bed and passed it to Epicaste. She dabbed her eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. Her face was hardening, her back straightening, morphing her back to her usual self, who Idas was quite relieved to see.

“I knew it. I knew there was something wrong there.” Her monotone fell heavy like stone. Idas knew she was speaking to herself. He held his breath, not wanting to disturb her. When she suddenly turned to him, he flinched, but she ignored it. “Gather your things, dear boy. You too, Zoe. We depart before sundown.” 

On the way to his room, Idas felt the world tilting under his feet. Epicaste was about to accost Clymenus, who might reveal Idas’ part in the ugly tale. But no, she stayed in her room until they’d collected their belongings into cloth sacks. The slave brought them to the chariot while Epicaste approached Clymenus in the courtyard, Idas trailing behind.

“I said away with you.” Clymenus was newly-drunk: not slurring and red-eyed yet but growing meaner at a steady incline. “I wish to have some peace.”

“Your wish is my command,” said Epicaste with a defiant pucker of her lips. “We leave here now.” 

“Quit with the theatrics, Epicaste.”

“You don’t believe me?”

Clymenus raised his eyes to her. In the orange light of the sinking sun, they appeared the green of a blade of fresh grass. He didn’t answer, appraising her like she was one of his livestock.

“You know I must leave,” Epicaste said, slicing through a minute of silence. “If I stay, that little bitch will die by my hand.”

“Out with you, then,” was Clymenus’ cold reply. Idas watched his father take a gulp of absinthe, clearly not bothered in the least that three-quarters of his family was walking away for good. He even had the nerve to let his eyes stray to the foyer, to the bottom of the stairs. 

Epicaste wrinkled her nose and turned away. “Come,” she called over her shoulders.

The slave tugged on Idas’ hand and his feet shuffled along obediently, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the king. _Look at me!_ Idas screamed at his father in his head. _Just once, gods help you!_ Instead, Clymenus stood, set his cup down, and walked in the direction of the south archway, which led to the foyer. Idas spun around to face forward, scoffing in disgust. Yet he couldn’t keep the tears from filling his eyes as he ducked his head and followed the queen out of the house. 

Outside, they were greeted by the cool air and waiting chariot. Zoe had summoned the male slave to draw up the horses. The women and Idas climbed in, stumbling over the cloth sacks at their feet. And that was it; they were on the pathway, riding through the village. Once they crossed the river, they’d be out of Arcadia for good.

At first, Idas was in complete misery over the situation. He was leaving behind the place he’d spent nearly 14 years in playing, running, learning, growing. In essence, it was as if he was leaving his whole childhood behind. Soon, everyone would know what transpired and why King Clymenus’ family had left Arcadia…but he and Epicaste wouldn’t be around to hear it, at least. 

The upside hit him at once: it didn’t matter what the villagers would say because they wouldn’t be around to hear it. Idas assumed their destination was Argos, but even that didn’t matter much. What mattered was that they went far away from Clymenus and his madness. They no longer had to see his disgusting affair; whatever happened in that house was no longer their concern.

And he no longer had to hide anything from Epicaste. This, above all, was a source of intense relief—Idas could actually feel the weight lifting off his shoulders as they continued down the path under the darkening sky. Without thinking, he grabbed his mother’s hand and squeezed it, reveling in the swift elevation of his spirits. She did not pull away like he expected her to but rather squeezed back. 

“This is a new beginning, my son,” she assured him, mistaking his touch being borne out of fear. “A healthy one.” 

Idas only nodded. He didn’t want to speak, for he’d told her all she needed to hear from him. Now they could move forward. 

* 

Harpalyke was still nursing the wounds sliced from her mother’s words. She’d left in the afternoon and now the sun was behind the mountains and Harpalyke still couldn’t make herself rise. Those words _hurt_ —why? Epicaste was cruel and hated her daughter; that was all there was to it.

Everyone had left her alone. The king was presumably in his lounge, cradling a cup of absinthe. What on Earth was his next move? It was too overwhelming to ponder. Apparently, the king planned on ignoring her for now, which aggravated her. He’d stolen her from Alastor, torn her family in half, turning everyone against her, and now he was going to leave her lying here? Paradoxically, she was glad he was not there. Ripples of anger coursed through her.

Only Athansa was on her side. The slave brought her a fresh glass of milk and a folded sheet tucked under her arm.

Harpalyke stood on wobbly knees, fighting the urge to look out the window to the horizon. She didn’t want to see Arcadia; she shouldn’t be here. Athansa set down the cup of milk and changed the sheets. There was something about that fresh, white sheet that caused Harpalyke’s heart to flutter in her chest, but she couldn’t understand why. 

Once that was done, she climbed back onto her bed and lifted the cup of milk to her lips. The familiar, warm taste comforted her in an instant. If she couldn’t have her Stateira dolls or Alastor or a normal-functioning family, at least she still had milk.

About an arm’s length away, Athansa was sitting on her bed, patiently waiting for her to finish the milk so she could take the cup and leave. She brought the milk every night and took this stance: seated primly on the bed, directing her solemn gaze out the window. Again, Harpalyke glanced at her and wondered about the other’s family. Had Athansa’s father visited her at night and kiss her like a lover? Not likely—Idas told her once that peasants all lie together on a sheet laid directly on the ground.

At once, Idas’ pointy face filled her head, a different sensation squeezing her chest. This one was easier to recognize: sorrow. As annoying and rude as her brother was, she’d miss him. If he’d kept his mouth shut, all would be fine. Not right, but fine. Harpalyke was a lot less angry with him than she would’ve anticipated if he spilled their father’s secret. Now that he’d done it, she only felt sorrow at his absence. 

Athansa glanced at her then, reaching for the cup. “Sleep well, child.”

She leaned forward, about to lift her rear from the bed, but Harpalyke’s hand shot out and clasped onto her arm, holding her in place. 

“What is it, girl?”

Athansa’s arm was soft under her palm, veins jutting out like small ropes under thin skin. Harpalyke didn’t know what she wanted to say, just that there was something ready to burst out, opening her mouth. The words wouldn’t come. Finally, one was dislodged from her throat. “Stay.” 

Why she wanted the slave to stay, she didn’t know nor care. Just as she was about to repeat it, even though Athansa wasn’t moving, a tall figure appeared in the archway. 

“Take that downstairs and clean up the kitchen,” Clymenus ordered Athansa. “You’re the only female help now, so you’re responsible for the housework.”

“Yes, my king,” Athansa mumbled, pulling her arm out of Harpalyke’s grasp and standing up. With the empty cup in one hand, she tucked the old sheet securely under her arm with the other. On her way out, she turned to the girl on the bed and gave her one last glance. Though it was indiscernible, Harpalyke recalled in that moment with a clench of horror, why she was so uneasy looking at the bedsheet. 

Last time Clymenus had made a visit, he’d released some of his fluid on her and wiped it off with the bedsheet. At first she’d thought it was urine, but like hers, it was thick and sticky. Did Athansa know what it was when she’d washed it away from the sheet?

The slave had already left, but Harpalyke, ignoring her father approaching, ruminated over her facial expression. Not disgust but rather…sorrow, pity? Harpalyke swallowed hard. Not sorrow, not what she felt for Idas, but something stronger. Did Athansa know or not?

“Your head is in the sky, princess,” said her father, taking her hand. “Come with me.” 

This was a new experience, following her father out of the room. Instinctively, her head swiveled around the hallway, searching for Epicaste, before she remembered Epicaste’s dramatic departure. _That little bitch will die by my hand._ Against her will. Harpalyke’s already-swollen eyes filled with even more tears. Just when she thought she’d cried them all.

She didn’t lift her head, letting her father tug her along until she passed Epicaste’s library-lounge. Harpalyke was flashing back to the first gathering with Chloris, when she’d decided she liked her future mother-in-law and felt comfortable with the idea of marriage. 

Tears flowed down her cheeks, her now limp, wavy hair covering her face and shielding it from the world. She was still in the purple dress. Her first curled into it, fighting the urge to tear it off. She’d been waiting for Clymenus all day and now she didn’t want him.

To her mild surprise, he was patient with her crying like he’d been in the chariot. Standing over her in his bedroom, he brushed her hair away from her cheeks and lowered a cup of absinthe in front of her face. It tasted foul mixed with the leftover milk on her tongue, but she drank it anyway, for she sensed a headache in the near horizon.

Her father sat beside her, clutching his own cup. Time seemed to freeze, only the cups of absinthe and moving through the still air. Harpalyke felt like hers was stronger than usual, burning the back of her throat. There was a hint of something familiar but not usually there; she couldn’t figure out what, nor did she particularly care.

After about four sips, her vision blurred and a flush crept up her neck to her cheeks. Eyes half-closed, wrapped in a pleasant bundle of blankness, she let her chin hit her chest. 

She might have dozed off, but in her next lucid moment, Clymenus’ hands were on her shoulders, gently shaking them. “Come here, princess.” 

Eyes still closed, she leaned in the direction of his voice. Her head met his chest briefly before he gathered her dress and pulled it over her head. As soon as the fabric cleared from her face, she flopped onto her back, arm slung over her eyes. She didn’t care that her breasts bounced freely in the open, or that she was exposed to Clymenus, or that he was kissing her mouth, touching her in that way. Now, all that consumed her mind was sleep. 

*

The girl was limp underneath him. Clymenus wanted her to stay awake, but apparently that poppy juice was a bit strong. Yes, he wanted her awake—her rocking hips and breathy sighs turned him feral. He was rock-hard, ready to pry open her legs and ravish her, but he didn’t want her fear getting in the way.

He nuzzled her plump cheeks, latching onto her neck. Before tonight, he could never do this, for Epicaste would’ve seen the blue-black marks. But now Epicaste was gone and his daughter’s skin was so smooth, her curves perfectly filling his palms. He could mark her up all he wanted; she was _his_.

“You’re so beautiful,” he told her before capturing her lips and reaching between her legs. That tingle he’d sent down her neck worked: her tender flesh was slick and hot. Unable to wait any longer, he spread her legs and dove in, delirious from her sweet musk and lush lips. He planted small kisses up and down her slit, causing her hips to tilt and a small sigh to reach his ears.

Another soon followed, and subsequent ones came more frequently as he buried his tongue into her hole and lapped up her nectar. He felt her hand clasp his hair, her hips rocking fully now, rubbing her cunt against his face.

After another moment of roughly licking her out, he came up for air, tangy nectar dripping from his bottom lip. Still leaning only inches away, he worked a finger into the tight hole. She clenched around it, while the hand gripped his hair.

“Daddy,” she gasped with a tinge of worry.

“It’s all right, baby,” he whispered, spreading her cunt and flicking the hard nub with his tongue. She mewled and bore down on his head. He closed his lips around her hood and gently sucked.

His cock was threatening to thrust into the cocoon of raw pink, but he couldn’t pull his mouth away. She was a never-ending fountain of nectar, a rush of euphoria straight to his brain. Eventually, he sat fully upright and positioned himself over her.

“You’re my perfect little nymph,” he told her, pulling his finger out and watching her inner lips cling to it. With it came a smear of dark red, the web of her virginity. He reached up for a taste, letting the metallic fluid slide down his throat. Then he gripped his cock and guided himself into her delicious flesh.

“Ow…” Harpalyke moaned, squeezing her eyes shut. Pushing himself deeper as slowly as possible, Clymenus leaned over, pressing his chest against her breasts and propping himself on his elbows to look at her face. 

Her eyes were half-open and full of tears, her nose scrunched in pain. He was content to simply bury his face into her neck, but then she began to sniffle and heave, forcing him to lift his head.

He was only halfway in, and she was already crying and pushing him away. “Daddy, I’m scared,” she whimpered. 

Trying to keep the exasperation out of his voice, he stroked her wet cheek and soothed her. “Shh, don’t cry, princess. I won’t hurt you.”

She stopped crying, but her chest still heaved, her dark eyes wide and glistening. 

“Do you understand me, Harpalyke?” 

She nodded, his sweet girl, so he rewarded her with a kiss, though he was the one who was being rewarded by her. His cock was finally deep into her delicious pocket. Shrouded in bliss, he clasped her hair, pressed his cheek against hers, and reveled in the moment he’d been yearning for all these nights. At last, he was inside the girl he created. His precious doll, made by him, for him. And she felt so good, better than in his dreams. 

“You’re mine now,” Clymenus breathed into her ear, moving as slowly as his body would allow. His effort paid off; Harpalyke was relaxing, letting out sighs and wrapping those long legs around his waist. 

“Do you hear me, Harpalyke? You’re  _mine_.” 

“Yes, Daddy,” came her squeak in his ear. Her whimpers were no longer heavy with pain or fear but desire. 

“Such a good girl.” He increased his pace, blocking out all other sensation other than her all around him. Holding her tight, he thrust into her, dulling her pain with his words. “I love you so much. My wife, my queen, my true love.” 

Her back arched suddenly, a melodic cry leaving her lips. “Daddy—oh!”

That cry was enough to push him over the edge. Emptying himself inside of her, he collapsed, gasping for breath. His legs slid against hers, both splattered with her fluid. He realized he was crushing her, so he rolled to the side, arms still clasped around her. They were floating away on a cloud of ecstasy, just the two of them, exactly as it should be.

Pulling her tighter against his chest, he buried his face into her tangled hair and inhaled deeply. His daughter was in his arms, breathing shallow. If only they could lie like that forever, but Clymenus was simply glad he’d finally gotten what he’d wanted—needed.

A surge of triumph rushed to his head. He knew he was rebelling against the Fates by lying with his own daughter. The gods begrudged those who dared taunt them, but there wasn’t a more beautiful creation than Harpalyke. Thus, surely they’d understand, but Clymenus didn’t care either way, as long as he had more moments like this.


	11. XI

By the time they’d reached Argos, a nest of dread had grown in Idas’ stomach, weighing down his insides. What on Earth would they tell his grandparents? Curse Harpalyke, he thought for the millionth time. His sister was quite good at messing up his life.

The horses slowed in front of the large, newly-built house. They were greeted by a slave and led into a vast courtyard. In the center was an elaborately-carved bird bath. It was this he stared at as they waited for someone to come. Epicaste, with eyes puffy and red-rimmed, appeared to be staring at the same thing.

“Greetings, dear daughter,” came the loud voice of her father, Dolichus. He appeared a second later with his wife, Pantheia, who took one look at Epicaste’s face and gasped.

“What’s happened, dear?” 

“Clymenus,” Epicaste whispered, her cheeks flushing and her eyes filling with tears. Her mother rushed over to her just as her face sank into shaking hands.

“What is it, daughter?”

Dolichus turned to a frozen Idas. “What’s happened, boy?”

Idas couldn’t make himself speak—his mind had shut completely off.

“Is Clymenus…dead?” Pantheia asked, eyes wide, holding Epicaste’s shoulders.

At last, Idas had enough sense to shake his head, relaxing Pantheia instantly. As if that’s the worst news, he thought. 

“Well, what is it, then?” Dolichus demanded of Idas.

Before he could again send the useless command to his mouth to speak, Epicaste sat upright and wiped her eyes. She took a deep breath before speaking, her voice coming out murky but steady.

“Clymenus took Harpalyke back from Alastor of Pylos.”

Her parents simply stared. Dolichus glanced at Idas, but Idas was still frozen, listening.

“He said she wasn’t ready,” Epicaste continued flatly. “Though it was clear _he_ wasn’t ready to let her go.”

“Well, he’s rather fond of her, isn’t he?” Pantheia pointed out.

“Yes, that’s obvious,” her daughter replied with a bite in her voice. “He’s a bit too fond of her. Enough that he’s been lying with her.” 

“No,” Pantheia breathed, covering her mouth.

Dolichus looked at Idas again as if to confirm. Jerkily, Idas nodded. Epicaste dissolved into tears once more, this time harder, so Pantheia led her to the ladies’ area on the other side of the house. 

“Come,” Dolichus said, beckoning Idas to follow. They entered a sitting room and took seats on lounge chairs, looking out at the endless black sea. Something about the sound and sight of the water instantly loosened Idas’ shoulders. He’d learned from men’s talk that plenty perished under Poseidon’s wrath. The salt in the air filled his nose and chest, scouring away the stress embedded in his lungs.

“Well, you’ve had quite a change, boy,” Dolichus remarked as a slave brought a bottle of absinthe and two cups. 

Idas didn’t want to drink, for the smell and taste of the alcohol would eclipse that of the sea. He held the cup anyway to avoid offending his grandfather. The men in his family were strict about upholding tradition. “Indeed I have,” he said quietly. 

The older man nodded, gazing out over the ocean. The crescent moon hovered over it, casting a white-gold shimmer over the water at the horizon. “I always knew something was wrong.”

At first, Idas had nearly forgotten the reason this all came to be and therefore didn’t know what Dolichus was referring to. Then it came back to him, tying up his stomach.

“I knew his affection toward her wasn’t normal. But what could I have said that wouldn’t have shattered Epicaste?”

Idas wondered if that was a jab at him, but nothing in his tone indicated that. 

Still staring at the ocean, Dolichus went on, “What makes a man so perverted? A curse, a sickness of the mind?” 

The next few minutes were passed in silence except for the waves against the shore and Epicaste’s faint crying. Idas’ shoulders sagged, his eyes closed from exhaustion. He hadn’t been able to sleep in the chariot and now he longed for a bed, some peace. 

“Go on to bed,” his grandfather prompted once he tore his gaze from the sea.

Idas nodded and set the full cup of absinthe on the table before leaving. He headed to the bedroom he’d shared with his sister and cousin the last time they were there, the previous cool season. The three of them had piled into the bed, the small, squirmy child separating him from Harpalyke. 

 _Curse her_. This time, it did not have the same conviction. Dolichus seemed to think it was all Clymenus’ fault for being perverted. Perhaps it was, or perhaps Harpalyke seduced him like Epicaste believed. Did it really matter? Either way, his mother was crying and his family was broken apart.

I always knew, Dolichus had said, but then why had he never spoken of it? Of course it was easier to now, when it was out in the open already, thanks to Idas.

He had indeed shattered his mother, but he didn’t feel so guilty about it. Because if he hadn’t said anything, Clymenus and Harpalyke would still be consorting behind Epicaste’s back, with Epicaste still torturing herself questioning if her husband’s affection toward their daughter was natural. 

Idas crawled into the bed and let out a sigh. By now, Epicaste had fallen silent, the night still around his ears. He’d gotten them here, his words. The words of a scrawny 13-year-old, the lesser son, had brought the dirty secret to light.

Epicaste would cry for many nights ahead, but she would heal properly, away from the king’s infection. And Idas himself…well, he was likely better off as well.

* 

The air grew warmer, and the sorrow over Harpalyke’s lost marriage lessened. Now without Idas, any of her friends, or even her mother’s commands, she was bored out of her mind. She was tired of waiting for Clymenus to acknowledge her existence. 

After another dull morning, she decided to find a way to pass the time. While Clymenus was making a visit to Megalopolis, Athansa hanging the washing downstairs, Harpalyke crept over to Clymenus’ library.

The women were not restricted from this area, since none of them could decipher a word of anything written. Harpalyke picked up a leaf of papyrus, running her fingers over the strange symbols. Certainly not for the first time in her life, explosive envy filled her chest toward Idas and Therager and all the other wealthy boys, for they’d been taught to read. Once she’d overheard Therager telling Idas a story about a young Messenian warrior who’d sailed across the sea in search of new land.

Harpalyke wondered if there were any stories featuring females. If she had a clue how to read or write, she could make her own story, though she knew she’d never have the chance to learn. Clymenus didn’t believe girls should even speak, let alone read or write. 

That was not a reason to stop her from making up a story in her head, however. Perhaps one day she could recite it to someone who could write, preserving it forever. For now, it had to be created first; it would be about a girl called Stateira, pretty and soft like her doll. But what on Earth would Stateira do? Of course not sit in the house and wait for her father to lie with her. No one would want to read of that.

Harpalyke sighed and set the papyrus down in its place. Her life was so absurd and yet so dull, that she had no material for an engaging story.

As she turned to leave the library, the view outside the window caught her eye, holding her in place. The stories Therager spoke of were filled with adventures of men because they were the ones allowed outside to seek them out. Harpalyke was not allowed outside, but with her parents gone, she could probably manage to sneak out unnoticed.

 _And thus she decided to venture out into the natural world_. The story played on in her head as she dressed, pulled on her sandals, and went downstairs as quietly as possible. Athansa was in the courtyard, so Harpalyke had to sneak out the other way, through her father’s lounge.

Since it overlooked almost all of the fields, she had to creep the perimeter of the lounge against the wall lest any of the farmers would look in and see her. When she got to the edge, she saw only one shepherd way beyond. It had rained that morning, so the crops were left alone for the time being. Perfect.

The wind felt wonderful against her face and in her lungs, but she hadn’t accounted for the muddy ground, coating the sides of her feet and sandals. No matter; she’d just wash them off before anyone could see. 

A few hearty strides later, her surroundings were green and fresh. Harpalyke always loved the start of the warm season. Everything came alive and bloomed, awakening after a bout of short, cold days. It reminded her of the relief she felt when she first opened her eyes after a headache and realized it was gone for good.

Lifting her arms, she tilted her face toward the late afternoon sun and began to twirl. Her hair and skirts fanned out, letting a cool breeze caress her neck and legs all the way up to her thighs. The lyre played in her head and she closed her eyes, wishing she could sing out loud. She settled on softly humming.

She was able to get lost in herself despite the pinch of pain between her legs when she twisted around. Clymenus had handled her roughly last night, the first time she’d protested his advances. She knew it was a dumb move, but she was just tired and wanted to be alone. A headache was lurking nearby, ready to consume her. Thankfully, it retreated, even when Clymenus had pinned her down and hissed, “Do not deny me.” So she lie still and let him in, hoping he would be gentle like usual, but he was not.

However, in this sun-soaked moment, last night was not in her conscious mind. Nothing was, only warmth and clouds and wind. Traveling through another realm, Harpalyke opened her eyes and was startled to see the sun was sinking into the mountains. How long had she been out here?

Dizziness sent her tumbling, but she only stumbled, trodding on the hem of her skirts. An urgent, familiar sound was filling the air: hooves against dirt. A chariot was approaching to her left, and she had a good idea whose.

Icy horror racing through her blood, Harpalyke straightened at once and re-oriented herself. The house was directly ahead, but the path was long. Without further hesitation, she bolted through the field, her hair spreading out behind her, snagging on branches. 

With her heart beating furiously, she reached the clearing just as the wheels of the chariot halted on the adjacent side of the house. She swallowed the breaths desperate to burst out as she darted into the kitchen. Athansa was not there—bad omen number one. 

Catching her breath, Harpalyke gripped her thighs and ducked her head, thinking hard. She would not get into a clean dress if he went straight to her, so the plan was to take it off, climb into bed, and pretend like she’d had a nap. She could say her head hurt, which actually wasn’t far from the truth. White sparkles like ones that preceded a headache took over her peripheral vision, likely due to the panic humming through her. 

The plan was severed upon entry to the foyer, where she ran nearly straight into her father. A sharp inhale seized her chest as she screeched to a halt.

He glared at her, eyes narrowed and lips tightened. “You were outside,” he stated, looking her up and down.

No use denying it now. “I simply—I just wanted a walk, Daddy,” she stammered, still out of breath. She slanted her eyebrows up over wide eyes in an attempt to appear innocent. It had worked a few times in the past, but not today. In response, Clymenus raised his hand and struck her clean across her face.

Crying out, Harpalyke stepped on her skirts again, throwing her hands out for balance. As soon as she was upright, Clymenus grabbed her chin and held her in place, hissing a warning through his teeth. 

“Don’t you dare defy me _ever again_. Now get upstairs.”

The tears at least waited until she’d scrambled up the stairs, pouring out when she reached her bedroom. Likely, she was supposed to go to the room she shared with Clymenus, but she wanted her old bed, as if collapsing on it would bring back the easier days.

Once her pillow was pressed into her face, she let loose, bawling and curling up. The king had promised he’d never hit her again and he lied. Didn’t he love her at all?

Her head was on fire now, a shrill ringing piercing her eardrums. She pressed her palms against her temples, whimpering in pain. “No, it hurts!”

It must’ve been only a minute but it felt like much longer when Athansa’s hands unfurled her and pressed a cool cloth against her forehead. “Shh, child.” 

“No!” Harpalyke cried, the word slicing her throat on its way out. She disregarded it and continued to howl, shoving Athansa’s arm away. “No! Get away!” 

“Shh…” 

But Harpalyke didn’t want to calm down nor to comply. The relentless pounding kept her angry. She wanted Clymenus to come to her and see how he’d hurt her. “No, leave me! _Leave me!”_  

Agony stabbed at her skill, squeezing her eyes shut. Something cool pressed against her lips and she reached up to slap it away. It turned out to be a cup of absinthe, which spilled across her chest. 

If Athansa was irritated, she didn’t show it. “Come on, child,” she said softly, taking Harpalyke’s shoulders and pulling her upright. Through her disheveled hair, she saw the slave beckoning her. “Come, let’s go to the other room.”

“No, I’m not going!” Harpalyke declared, turning away and lying on her side.

“Come…”

“No! I said I’m not going there! Leave me alone!” 

Even through the roaring pain, she felt Athansa’s hands on her shoulders and heard her soothing voice, but neither calmed her. Writhing and hollering, she resisted until blackness swallowed her at last. 

*

Finally, peace. Absinthe flowed languidly through his blood, sinking Clymenus into a pleasant haze. The sun cast gold over his fields. And, best of all, Harpalyke had finally stopped crying. She had another stupid headache, rendering her a weepy mess. 

At least the other headaches—Epicaste, Idas, and that awful, lazy slave—were gone. Letting out a sigh, Clymenus gazed at the heavens, sipping from his cup. There were so many gods, he couldn’t ever keep up with them. Only Pan and Artemis bothered with Arcadia anyway.

“King Clymenus!” a voice called out, startling him so badly, some absinthe spilled over the rim of his cup and splashed onto the floor. He collected himself in an instant, but his slip had still been visible to the intruder, who turned out to be Erastos the farmer. Initially, Clymenus chastised himself for his display of weakness, but just what in the hell was the farmer doing here at this hour?

“Good evening, my king,” Erastos said as he approached. An odd amount of scuffling echoed around the lounge, and then Clymenus noticed the two females, a woman and girl standing behind Erastos.

Clymenus sent a questioning look at him. A hasty explanation tumbled out of Erastos’ mouth. “Please forgive me, but my wife and daughter keep asking to visit Harpalyke. Is this a good time, my king?”

“Unfortunately not,” Clymenus replied. He meant to sound rueful but his tone was pure apathy. This turned out to be a good thing, since his wife, Eumene, was persistent.

“Please, my king, we only wish to deliver these.” In her arms and those of her tiny, dull-looking daughter were baskets decorated with flowers.

Clymenus surveyed her coldly, fighting the order telling her to go away. “She is sleeping. She has a headache.”

The woman opened her mouth again, but thankfully, Erastos turned to her and barked, “Enough! Away with you two! The king and I must discuss affairs.”

Heads down, mother and daughter turned away. “You may leave the baskets for her at my feet,” Clymenus told them.

They obeyed and left, but not before Clymenus saw them exchange uneasy glances. He really did not care for such meddling harpies on his land, but at least this would be the last of them since they usually came for Epicaste. When their silhouettes disappeared from view, he gestured to the chair nearby. “Please sit, Erastos.”

“Thank you, my king.”

The slave brought him a cup of absinthe, which he accepted gratefully. “My king, if I may,” he said after a few moments of silence, “I’ve heard of this wonderful oil they sell in Megalopolis. It’s made of eucalyptus and supposedly relieves awful headaches. Perhaps this would help.”

Clymenus thought hard before speaking. He didn’t want to go back to Megalopolis; he was just there and the inhabitants’ attitude toward him had changed. He couldn’t pinpoint how, since they were as obedient and docile as ever in his presence. As long as he had control, he could deal with the rest.

“I will obtain this on my next journey.”

Erastos nodded. One aspect Clymenus appreciated about him was his ability to appear so neutral. The king wasn’t stupid; he knew what the majority of Arcadia thought of him. Only once, just before his departure when he’d had a fair amount of drink in him, did Erastos allude to the elephant in the room. “Moral choices matter not to me, my king, only your continued firm rule.”

“Thank you, Erastos,” Clymenus said earnestly. Perhaps it was absurd to hold the farmer in such high esteem, but still he was grateful for those words.

Once Erastos was gone, Clymenus dumped the rest of the liquid into his cup and drank it in three swallows. He was a bit drunker than he realized—as he stood, the lounge tilted sideways. That didn’t matter. He was going straight to bed, since he had to leave his daughter alone.

However, as soon as he stepped onto the second floor, that resolve had dissolved instantly upon hearing a girlish sigh float into the hallway.

He would not touch her. He could simply look. She was most likely wrapped up in a sheet, face shrouded in silky dark hair, but he was propelled by the chance of getting a glimpse of something more. Though he _would not_ touch her.

Tonight, he was in luck: in the pale moonlight, she was lying on her back, an arm slung over her face. The sheet was bunched at her waist. He would not grasp it in his hands and pull it down; that was not his hand. And that was not him who climbed over her sleeping form and buried his face into her neck.

“Wake up, my sweet girl,” he mumbled in her ear, inhaling her scent and pressing into her. There was nothing which felt, smelled, and tasted like her and he decided he would not abstain from enjoying her.

Her eyes creaked open, her face scrunched up. “No…”

“Shh,” he soothed her, stroking her cheek.

“No, it hurts…” She slipped out from underneath him and sat up. “Oh, gods!”

“Shh,” Clymenus repeated, grabbing the cup by the bed and holding it to her lips. It was empty, so she pushed it away. 

“Oh, gods!” She bent over, snatched a bucket from the floor, and threw up into it. Old, foamy absinthe poured out as Clymenus held her hair and patted her back. He was full of patience, even if it was feigned. He’d messed up by striking her, but he couldn’t tolerate her defiance.

Both their heads turned to the sound of footsteps rushing into the room. The dark slave was advancing, cool cloth in one hand, cup in another.

“Athansa!” Harpalyke cried, reaching in her direction. 

Anger flooded his body before his brain registered what she’d said. The slave’s name—she preferred her company over his.

His fist tightened around her hair and he snatched the cool cloth out of the slave’s hands. _Control yourself._ “I’ll take care of her now,” he told her calmly. “You are dismissed for the night.”

She merely nodded and set the cup down on the table before leaving. This slave had never disobeyed him and carried out her duties efficiently, so why was he so uncomfortable with her?

Because Harpalyke called her _Athansa_. He’d allow this odd bond but he had to keep an eye on it. For now, though, he was free to enjoy his daughter. Pressing the cool cloth against her forehead, he lifted the new cup to her mouth. It turned out to be water, which she gulped down in a second.

Gently, he lay her down on the bed. Breaths still laced with pain, she clutched her head and rolled over. Clearly, she was in no position to reciprocate, but that wasn’t a barrier. Sliding under the sheets, Clymenus held her around the waist, chest pressed against her back. His mouth met her neck, his cock stiff against the pad of her rear. 

“Gods, it hurts,” she mumbled. He couldn’t take her pain away but he could try to replace it with pleasure. If she would let him, that is. As his hand slid up her impossibly smooth inner thigh, she tensed up. 

“No, Daddy, please don’t, it hurts…” 

“Shh, baby, just relax.” 

Running his tongue down her neck, he felt her shiver as he lifted her leg and told her, “Remember, I said I wouldn’t hurt you. Relax, sweet girl.”

Eventually, he coaxed her still and worked his cock into her snug, wet cunt, letting out a groan of pleasure. Her feel, her scent, her little sighs as he thrust into her… Only a king deserved such indulgence.

Shortly after filling her with his seed and pulling out, he lay on his back, drifting to sleep. Beside him, his daughter was limp on top of his arm. He assumed she was sleeping until her voice flowed through a drunken haze of ecstasy.

“My head doesn’t hurt now, Daddy.”

“Good,” he whispered, closing his eyes and turning his face toward her until his lips touched the top of her head. He fell asleep like that, giving her a night-long kiss.


	12. XII

All Idas knew of philosophy was that older, upper-class men held it in high esteem—all except Clymenus, who scorned it. “Real men go to battle,” he was fond of saying. 

But here stood his son in a library in Argos waiting for a master of philosophy to visit. Idas had no idea what to expect. He had a vague suspicion it involved reading and writing, neither of which were particularly easy for him. His foot begged to tap nervously, but he held it still.

After an eternity, in came a slightly overweight man with hair that stuck straight out of his head. Idas could only blink as he approached, pulling him to his chest. “Greetings, Idas of Arcadia! I am Croesus, master of philosophy and debate.” 

“Greetings,” Idas answered, voice lifted with uncertainty. He didn’t know who he’d been expecting, but this man wasn’t it.

“Please, shall we have a seat?”

They sat on cushions facing each other. Idas noticed the man sat with his legs folded under him, something Clymenus hated, for it appeared “feminine.” Despite Croesus’ odd demeanor, Idas was drawn to him.

“Idas, my boy, we are here to speak of knowledge and truth and only that. If someone makes a statement, how will you know if it is the truth?”

“Uh,” Idas stuttered, feeling his cheeks tinge. Thankfully, Croesus kept talking. 

“It is the truth when spoken from a bank of knowledge. When you are certain it is true, you can say it with ease.”

Perfect; Idas was already lost. He nodded with polite interest, hoping his ignorance didn’t show on his face.

“But how can you be certain in the first place? How do you build up this bank of knowledge? Answer me that, Idas.”

Again Idas sat frozen, while Croesus prompted patiently, “Recall the last statement that you spoke out loud with _certainty_ that it is true.” 

There had been many, much simpler statements uttered across the span of the previous day, but of course, Idas had to choose the one that held the most weight—the reveal of his father’s and sister’s affair. Against his will, his mouth twisted in distaste. 

Croesus was gazing at him, surveying him with benevolent dark eyes. “Now you have your fact, so recall the event which led you to believe it. Did you witness it with your own eyes or hear it from someone you trust?” 

The former, Idas answered silently as he desperately suppressed the memory of the discovery. He’d witnessed it and his relatives had sensed it all these years. No room left for doubt. 

“That is called evidence, my boy, and it solidifies your assertion that it is the truth. If you give many examples of collective evidence, your argument has a steady foundation. You will not fail.” 

Idas opened his mouth despite not knowing how to respond to that. Another “truth” he was certain of is that he would fail, since he failed at everything he attempted to do properly. As if reading his mind, Croesus nodded. “Keep that in mind as we move forward, Idas. Now I’d like you to recall the memory you had just now. It has certainly brought up a feeling of revulsion.”

Idas nodded, hoping hard the master wouldn’t ask him to speak of the memory.

Luck was still on his side: Croesus asked instead, “How does your body respond to revulsion? Think, does it respond the same way to a feeling other than disgust?” 

“I—I don’t know. No.”

“Tell me, boy, this recollection gnawed at your morality, yes?” 

“I guess so.” Idas felt dumber than the large rock jutting from the sand in view of the window. He had never given morality much thought, though he knew it differed drastically from his father’s. With more conviction, he nodded.

“Now, I want you to think,” Croesus continued, rubbing his hands together, more animated now. “Ask yourself, is my recollection really repulsive, or is it according to my own morals?” 

Idas stared at him in bewilderment. Of course it was really repulsive, objectively repulsive. The urge to blurt the whole thing to this man was fleeting but strong. 

“The reason I’m asking is, if you’re going to argue effectively, it is imperative to fully understand your opponent’s point of view. That becomes difficult to do when you’ve already held it up against your morality and dismissed it.” 

“Master, what if, um, the argument is about an objectively bad topic?” Idas asked, his heart kicking up as the elder turned to him. He was expecting Croesus’ rage, but on the contrary, the eccentric man had a broad grin on his face. 

“Why, there is no such thing, my boy!” A large hand clapped Idas on the back, nearly knocking him off the chair. “No topic is objectively bad unless neither party is open to discussing it! If it is a true argument, meaning both of the men partaking are seeking knowledge to both gain and impart, they will amend their foundation of knowledge.”

For an absurd moment, Idas imagined Clymenus in front of him, engaging in this type of argument, listing off his reasons as to why consorting with Harpalyke was the right thing to do. The imagined scenario brought forth the urge to both hurl and burst out laughing.

This did not go unnoticed by Croesus, who cocked his head at him. He was perched at the edge of his seat, giving Idas the uncomfortable impression that he was about to lunge at him.

“Look, boy, I can see you’ve got something raging inside, so why don’t you let it out? The things you can learn, the perspectives you can gain just by speaking out loud!”

Idas caught himself before shaking his head. Not even in Hades’ chokehold would he speak directly of his family’s misdeeds, but he could blur out any identifying details.

“Let’s say…” he began slowly, letting his eyes stray out the window to the sea beyond. The waves had a way of clearing his head, the monotony of crashing blue-green quieting down the noise of multiple thoughts at once. “Let’s say a man and a woman have an illicit affair behind everyone’s back. They’re both married. Would it be wrong of them to engage in passion if they’re neglecting their loyalties to their spouses?”

“Well…if no one finds out, are they really doing any harm?”

“And if someone did find out?” Idas prompted, with the feeling that the answer would’ve been different had he asked Epicaste or another woman.

“There are many arguments to be made for their motivation,” Croesus told him. He was leaning back now, his voice softer, but he was gazing at the younger no less intensely. “Perhaps the man’s wife is not upholding her duty. Perhaps the woman has fallen madly, deeply in love with him. Or we can go with the simplest explanation, that they’re simply bored."

“And that makes it alright?” Idas challenged before he could stop himself.

“Alright for whom?” Croesus replied. “Not alright for the spouses, but certainly alright for the two lovers. Their actions must fit into their view of ‘alright,’ otherwise they wouldn’t have perpetuated it, no? See, it all goes back to the idea of morality and how subjective that is.”

Idas resisted the urge to rub his eyes. His head was starting to ache, his eyes threatening to close. Philosophy took as much energy out of him as discus training. Again he looked out to sea, but it didn’t reveal an answer. 

“Unless, of course…” Croesus said after a minute of silence save for the water, “…there are things that are universally condemnable—taunting the gods. Senseless murder, thievery, lying with a brother’s wife…lying with kin…”

A lump formed in Idas’ throat. “That last one…doesn’t that apply to your earlier argument?”

The older man turned slowly to look at him. Idas didn’t like the knowing look in his grey-green eyes but too late now; the words couldn’t be unspoken. “Perhaps if both are old enough to understand how unnatural it is. But the gods do not like mortals going so far against nature.” 

A frown pulled Idas’ eyebrows together. “But if it is so unnatural, why would they be compelled to do such a thing?”

“Well, we all have dark thoughts, my boy. The important thing is to keep them contained in our heads. See, morality doesn’t begin to touch upon the idea of causing great harm to others. And who is the parent hurting when he engages with his kin? Tell me, boy, who?” 

“Himself?” Idas guessed, his head feeling fuzzy again. “The other members of his family?” That’s for damn sure, he answered silently. 

Croesus’ eyes shifted to the sea. For the first time, he looked reluctant to speak. “No, to the kin he consorts with.”

A scoff left Idas’ mouth but thankfully it got lost in the sound of the waves before it reached the other’s ears. How on Earth was Clymenus hurting Harpalyke? The image of her sprawled on the bed came swift and sharp, causing him to blush. She clearly enjoyed it, likely sought it out like Epicaste swore she did. Regardless, Harpalyke didn’t act hurt in the least. 

Still not looking at him but seeming to read his mind, Croesus continued, “The child is just that, a child. She is not yet aware of how unnatural it is.”

Before his words could sink in, he abruptly turned back to Idas and raised a hand in farewell. “Until next week, my boy.”

He left Idas standing still, lost in thought. _Lying with kin…unnatural…_ A painful prickling was overtaking his stomach. _She is not yet aware…_ She—Harpalyke. It was true; Harpalyke, even after 16 years alive, had hardly a clue of what was natural or moral. She only acted upon that which she was taught.

 _No_ , he told himself firmly. Sixteen was plenty old enough. If Idas at age 14, a male no less, could understand and control his lust, there was no reason Harpalyke couldn’t. But she didn’t, so hell, what did it matter now?

The prickling was relentless. After a cool drink of water from the well, Idas began to pinpoint exactly what was nagging him. Croesus, all the way here in Argos, seemed to know what Idas had been referring to from the start. How was that possible? King Dolichus was meticulous in covering up the real reason his daughter and single grandchild were not in Arcadia, but had it slipped through some unseen crack in the wall? No, nobody but the four of them could know.

It’s impossible, he assured himself as she crossed the large, salt-scented courtyard, cup of water in hand. They were far enough away. The ugliness was confined to Arcadia. Yet in his conviction, the ball of dread deep in his stomach did not lessen. 

*

As Clymenus passed the foyer, he heard female whining from upstairs.

“But I _want to go_ ,” Harpalyke was moaning. “Please take me.”

The slave murmured something indiscernible. 

“Well, the king isn’t here. I am the queen now, Athansa, and I command you to take me outside.”

The king expected the slave to acquiesce, but as he climbed the stairs, he heard her say, “The queen has the authority to leave the house alone if she so wishes.”

How dare that bitch speak out of turn, he thought as he stomped toward his daughter’s room. Harpalyke was seated on the bed, her hair gliding through the slave’s calloused hands as she braided it.

“You are not to leave this house alone,” Clymenus spat at her. “You already know this. And you.” He turned to the slave, who cast her eyes downward. “Your presence is no longer required up here now that Harpalyke is a woman. Your place is in the kitchen.”

“Yes, my king,” she said at once, dropping the bundle of hair and walking out. Clymenus barely registered her brushing past him, focused on his daughter’s face. Her eyebrows slanted up over wide, stricken eyes, upset at his command.

This was only reinforcement that his command had been for the best. He couldn’t have his daughter growing any type of fondness for the slave. That would disrupt the natural order more than he ever would.

After a moment, Harpalyke’s expression dropped into one of profound glumness. Though he wanted to smack it off of her, he curled his hands into fists and asked, “What’s wrong, darling?” 

She peered up at him. Even pouting and sulky, she was beautiful. “I’d really like to go outside.” 

Clymenus looked out the window. The sun was crawling closer to Mt. Cyllene. Almost all day was spent waiting for it to disappear so he could satiate his need for her flesh. Now with a supplemental plan, he was glad the sun wasn’t quite gone yet.

“Well, I could take you for a walk,” he said slowly, fearing the disappointment wouldn’t budge.

On the contrary, her face lit up and he was blessed with that angelic smile. “Really, Daddy? I’d love that!” 

She jumped up off the bed and leapt into his arms. He held her close, reveling in her excitement, for it meant nothing to do with any preference for the slave. Kissing the top of her head, he gave her a squeeze before releasing her and taking her hand.

Only their footsteps on the ground and the far-away cries of birds filled the warm afternoon air. Added to that was the faint rushing of the stream as they advanced farther across the fields. The vines were growing nicely, thick and green and bursting with leaves.

They paled in comparison to the radiant figure at his side. A pale, delicate hand reached out, gliding over the leaves. Her face was tilted toward the sun, eyes half-closed, a small smile pulling up her lips. This is the first time he’d seen her with her hair braided back since the wedding. While he preferred it down and flowing, he found this style enticing, for it showed off the curves of her neck, cheeks, and shoulders. He could not stop watching her in all her bliss, her presence intoxicating. 

Soon they reached the stream, strolling along the bank. She tugged on his hand to get closer to the water. “Oh, please Daddy, can I dip my feet in?”

Clymenus obliged her, letting go of her hand. Bounding over to the stream and hiking up her skirts, she let out a whoop of glee he couldn’t help but smile at.

For a few minutes, her giggles and splashes faded into the periphery as he walked along the shore, facing ahead. They were approaching a large boulder he remembered seeing Idas climb once on the way back from some journey or other.

Clymenus had been shocked to see his spindly lizard of a son gracefully heave himself up over the rock. It was this reason why he’d never restricted the boy from anywhere outside, even with those rats from the village. Therager could catch the quickest rabbit and Idas couldn’t keep a sheep in line, so he had to learn somehow. 

But Idas had grown, he saw, and changed. Before Epicaste took him, the boy had grown cold, and to the king’s fury, lost all respect for his father. To hell with him, he thought; the foolish boy knew nothing.

In front of his eyes, his daughter was now trying to climb the boulder, but it registered to him only when she’d fallen on her bottom, mouth open, stunned.

“Are you alright, sweetheart?” he asked, knowing she was fine but striding toward her anyway.

She didn’t answer, reaching her hands up. He took them and helped her to her feet, moving them to her waist. For a moment, directly under a ray of sun, father and daughter simply stared at each other with calm, curious expressions.

Then Harpalyke blushed and looked away, a small smile tugging at her mouth. Clymenus liked her best like this, when she was craving his attention but too shy to ask for it. 

Taking her face into his hands, he tilted it up and brought his lips to hers. His intention had been a brief kiss before releasing her, but his lips would not leave hers, his hands tightening around her waist. Kissing her harder, he gripped her and backed her up against the boulder.

The king had always prided himself on being logical and moving with care, but all his resolve was snatched by Harpalyke’s softness against him. He pressed himself into her, gripping her flesh and consuming her mouth like it was the sweetest fruit on Earth. He knew there was an even sweeter taste between her legs and he was not passing it up. 

“Daddy,” she breathed in his ear when he pulled aside her skirts and gripped her inner thigh to lift it. “Not _here_.” 

“Shh,” Clymenus told her, sliding his fingers slowly up the delicious curve. He could feel her heart beating against his chest, but when his hand met her cunt, it was slick and hot, ready for him.

It mattered not that they were outside where a chariot passing by had a clear view. He was lost between her legs, sliding his tongue from the puckered little hole in the rear up to her clit and back down again. As predicted, she began to moan, while a hand nestled itself into the hair at the back of his head. Only he could turn his shy girl into a little slut.

After a few more licks, he stood upright and pushed himself into her, pinning her to the boulder. At first, she was really enjoying his thrusts, but halfway through, nerves seized her up again. He was teetering on the edge of release, so he held her tighter and continued until he pumped all of his fluid into her, his face buried into her neck.

As always, he’d thoroughly enjoyed his princess, but next time, he decided as he took her hand, he wanted her on her knees as well. 

*

Good gods, it was perfect outside. The sky was filled with puffy clouds somewhere between grey and blue with gaps wide enough to let distinct yellow rays of sun break through. It was Harpalyke’s favorite type of sky; when she saw it, she knew she had to get outside.

Thankfully, Clymenus was in a generous mood and offered to take her, though it came with the price of losing Athansa. A pang passed through Harpalyke’s heart as she and her father, side by side, entered the fields. She would miss Athansa’s frequent presence, but at least she was still in the house. Harpalyke had heard of others completely banishing their slaves for no reason.

Out here, she quickly forgot about Athansa, overtaken by the warmth and light and sounds of nature. Why couldn’t she have been born a butterfly? Their lives seemed so much simpler, freer.

Beside her, Clymenus was silent, glancing over at her every so often. She was relieved to see that his eyes were absent of what she now recognized as lust. Relaxing even more, she forgot about him too and basked in the sunlight, running her hand over the velvety leaves sprouting from the vines.

She was given permission to splash in the stream, so in she went, relishing the cool water gliding over her skin, sending tingles up her legs. While she trotted and giggled, her father strode alongside the bank, paying her no mind.

For a moment, this irritated Harpalyke and she slowed, letting him walk ahead to see how long it would take him to notice. However, she was soon distracted again, this time by the patch of wildflowers on a thick patch of grass preceding the large boulder. She came out of the water, noticing the bottom of her skirts were damp, even though she’d held them up. 

The flowers were a myriad of colors: yellow, white, purple, pale blue. She took one of each color and tucked them into the braid Athansa had given her. _Now christened the princess of nature, Stateira was ready for an adventure._  

The adventure went something like running through the fields and venturing over the wooden bridge to the other side of the stream, an area she’d never walked on. Of course, Clymenus would not allow that, so she settled on climbing the boulder. She’d seen Idas do it many times and always wanted to try it herself. 

She expected her father to admonish her, but if he was about it, he was saved the necessity when her foot slipped and she landed flat on her rear. Unsure whether to laugh or cry, she reached for Clymenus.

Once in his arms, Harpalyke felt better in an instant. He did not let go, holding her gaze, blank-faced. Then she saw it: the familiar flash of lust. 

Her stomach churned, but pleasure at having his full attention overrode that. A conflict arose—she did want him to touch her, but she knew it was neither the time nor the place for it.

Apparently, Clymenus thought otherwise. Kissing her and holding her around the waist, he pushed her up against the boulder and dove under her skirts, ignoring her protests.

No, this is wrong, said her head but like always, her body was acting on its own, relaxing and enjoying the sensation of her father’s tongue between her legs. It strayed farther back than she expected, touching a hole she never thought could be licked. A cloud shifted away from the sun, freeing a bright ray of light, causing her to shut her eyes. This helped her forget her surroundings, all else fading but the rough rock against the back of her head and his body against hers. His breath was ragged against her neck, fingers digging into her leg as he rammed into her.

The clouds moved on, blocking out the sun. Harpalyke opened her eyes and saw a figure standing in the fields over Clymenus’ shoulder. Bombarded with the same awful feeling as when they were caught by Idas, she gasped and seized up. In the throes of passion, Clymenus did not notice, clutching her tightly. 

The figure turned before she could make it out, but its stocky form was familiar; she knew him, that he was one of Idas’ friends from the village, but which—?

Her thoughts were cut off by Clymenus slamming into her, grunting in release. A short cry escaped her lips as both feet found the ground and her skirts fell over her legs, come streaming down her inner thighs. Rubbing the back of her head, she watched the king step backward, catching his breath. A quick glance at the spot in the field showed nothing—the boy was gone. 

Clymenus smiled and took her hand. It was time to go back. “What’s wrong, baby?” he asked upon seeing the look on her face. 

“I think someone saw us,” she blurted. “A boy from the village.”

“Why does that matter?” he replied somewhat impatiently, looking at her out of the side of his eye. He didn’t bother glancing around, clearly not concerned with the opinions of the villagers.

Harpalyke couldn’t think of a way to voice her fears. The thought of the villagers knowing how her father touched her was horrifying. They already knew something was wrong with her, since she wasn’t in Pylos. A searing wave flooded her chest at the thought of Alastor, but just then, Clymenus stepped in front of her, stopping her short and cutting off her thoughts. 

“Relax, baby,” he told her, brushing his knuckles across her cheek. “I control this kingdom, if you recall.” 

“Yes, Daddy,” she mumbled, glancing at her muddy feet.

He nudged her to keep walking, clasping her hand again. The clouds released another ray of sun upon their heads, but this one was more orange than yellow. Soon the sun would set and night would come, along with the king to her bed, woozy with absinthe and lust. 

 _The adventure was finished; back to Stateira’s nightly duty, pleasing her husband who was also her father._ Now it was Harpalyke giving Clymenus pointed sideways glances. He was no longer looking at her, no longer interested. Now that he’d gotten what he wanted, she realized miserably, the only thing. The grip of shame clenched around her heart.

 _Outside, she was an adventuress; inside, a toy._ Little wonder she was always itching to go outside.

For the first time Harpalyke could ever remember, she had the urge to pull her hand out of her father’s and walk away from him. His attention was not the gift she was clamoring for. In fact, if she could not have Alastor, she preferred to be simply left alone.


	13. XIII

Forty-five—the number of years Clymenus had walked the earth. His mother told him that he’d been born just after dusk and dusk was rapidly approaching. Seated upon his throne, he tilted his head back and let absinthe flow down his throat. 

Twenty years of ruling over Arcadia. He recalled the year he’d taken the throne, his wedding to Epicaste, the announcement of Therager’s birth. An ill-born followed shortly after, living only a couple of days, and then several years later came Harpalyke. Never would he have imagined falling in love with his daughter. A fleeting stab of shame sliced his chest, but no matter, he’d handle it like a man, with absinthe. The bottle was empty; time for another.

The room swayed slightly as he stood, but his steps were steady. Halfway across the courtyard, he overheard voices from the kitchen, both familiar. 

“I don’t feel like I’m the queen, like I’m married,” Harpalyke was saying. “I’m still the same girl I’ve been all these years. I feel as if I should be behaving differently.” 

Clymenus paused just beyond the archway, frowning. He’d never heard his daughter speak so clearly and concisely, used to her hissy fits or shy silence. From his narrow view into the kitchen, he could see Harpalyke’s bare arm and skirts. She was seated with the slave standing behind her, braiding her hair.

“That’s normal in the beginning, my queen,” came the slave’s soft reply.

“How do you know?” There was no trace of condescension in the girl’s voice; she was simply curious. “Have you ever married?”

“I haven’t,” the elder said, unbothered by such a question. 

“Sometimes I wish time could turn back to when I was simply the princess, before the king developed an affection for me.” 

Hot rage flooded Clymenus’ veins, while his chest seized as if he’d been stabbed. His hands curled into fists as he stomped toward her. She dared, after all he’d done for her?

Upon seeing him, her eyes widened and she leaned back toward the slave, further enraging him. As he advanced, he reached out and snatched a fistful of her hair, yanking her off the bench. 

“Disobedient witch, what do you think you’re doing here? Your place is upstairs!”

Harpalyke immediately started crying as he dragged her away without a second glance at the slave. He’d deal with her later. At the moment, he was ready to tear out every hair from his daughter’s head, now that she was howling and resisting. Losing patience just outside her room, he held her by the waist and pinned her to him, his fist entangled in the roots of her silken hair. “Listen to me. You _will_ shut up and stay in your room until I say you can leave. Is that understood?” 

Sniffling and shaking, she managed to nod.

“Good.” He shoved her away, watching her trip over her skirts and tumble through the archway. The curtain slid over her head, hiding her crash to the floor from view. A loud thud and girlish yelp filled the air, followed by silence. 

He stood by the door a second longer, listening to the sniffles and whimpers. That little traitor could curl up into a ball and cry her little heart out until morning for all he cared.

Still drowning in ire, Clymenus turned and clomped back downstairs. His intention was to dismiss the slave, but when the cool night air hit him upon entering the courtyard, he changed his mind, logic kicking in. No one else would take in that old black bitch and damn if she wasn’t efficient, further proven when he re-entered the kitchen and saw his cup and a newly-opened bottle of absinthe on the table.

He pointed his finger at the slave’s face and warned, “Do not ever speak to my daughter again except to send her upstairs if she comes in here.” 

“Yes, my king,” she said, hauling a bucket of water from the basin to the hearth. 

Satisfied at last, Clymenus took the absinthe and retreated to his throne. The sky was pitch-black; he’d missed the last vestiges of the sunset. 

The satisfaction was short-lived, evaporating as soon as he was seated in the throne. _Forty-five._ That aggravating number again, prompting memories of his youth. Gods, had he genuinely loved Epicaste in the beginning. All of Arcadia talked of him, this outsider, this lower-class specimen, for no one in his family had yet to win a throne. And the worst part was that Epicaste had loved him back, with sincerity. She’d gladly given him three children. Only after the birth of Idas did she grow cold, despite a warm affinity for Idas over the others. 

Her preference for the boy was obvious, hanging heavy in the air of the house. Therager had gone on hunting, preferring the wild and the mountains over the home, but Harpalyke didn’t take kindly to being ignored. It was Clymenus who was most patient with her, growing fond of her. And now she was by his side for good as his loving, perfect wife. Except she was upstairs sobbing, probably not loving him at the moment, and he was alone with a nearly-empty bottle. Damn it, this was not how he wanted to pass his birthday. 

His princess could make him happy, but first he had to soothe her. Not an issue if he kept his patience. Now his gait was wobbled, his vision blurry. Climbing the stairs was laborious but worth it when he arrived at his daughter’s bedside and saw that she was awake, sitting on the bed hugging her knees. 

She didn’t speak, glancing up at him with reproachful slits for eyes. He didn’t blame her, for he’d been too rough with her again. Reaching out and smoothing her hair away from her face, he spoke to her calmly.

“Come here, sweetheart.” 

He sat on the bed and pulled her to him, unleashing another wave of tears. Patiently, he patted her head and rocked her back and forth before taking her hand and standing up. “Come, come to _our_ bed.”

Harpalyke followed Clymenus to their shared marital bed—he made a note to confine her here instead of her childhood room—where they both lay facing each other. He pulled her closer so that her head was nestled under his neck, his legs slung over hers. Sighs heaved in her chest, tears leaking into his tunic. 

“Shh, baby girl, don’t cry,” he whispered, running his fingers across her temple to wipe her tears away. “I’m sorry for hurting you, my precious girl.” 

“It—it’s alright, Daddy,” she mumbled through reddened lips. He wanted to clutch her jaw and devour them, but she needed further warming up, her body still stiff with wary in his arms. He dragged his fingertips over a swollen eyelid, a plump, wet cheek, soft lips… Against her stomach, his cock was rising to attention as she melted into him. 

“I love you, Harpalyke,” he told her, tilting her head up and looking into her eyes. They were lined with glistening eyelashes, wet and clumped together.

“I love you, too, Daddy,” she said, managing a weak smile. 

Clymenus could take it no longer; the urge to ravish her was too strong. He ducked his head and captured her lips, tearing off her skirts. He rolled her onto her stomach to rub her from behind, admiring the slope of her ass. Sinking his teeth into the lush pad of fat, he slid two fingers between her closed thighs and into her cunt.

After a few thrusts, bringing forth her sweet little cries muffled by her hair over her face, Clymenus mounted her, clutching her ass cheeks and letting his ravenous hunger take over until he filled her up and collapsed beside her.

Harpalyke lay limp in that position, apparently asleep. Clymenus’ breath wasn’t steady enough to call her name, so he wrapped his arms around her, burying his face into her musty hair, soaking up the last moments of his birthday in a state of pure bliss. 

* 

Idas felt like he was back behind the old ruin on the path skirting the Arcadian village, under scrutiny of the older boys. Except these boys were not crass and poor but the descendants of the Argive elite. 

He’d briefly met the small, black-haired boy beside him, Pandion, but the names of the other two were quickly forgotten. The four of them sat in a circle on the floor of his grandfather’s library. In Pandion’s hands was a large leaf of papyrus. 

Idas’ heart was fluttering in his chest. Apparently, they were all about to read aloud the tiny etchings. Thanks to Clymenus’ distaste of anything important, his sons hadn’t much of a literary education—Therager could barely read at all. But Therager could hunt and Idas couldn’t even do that. None of these boys were as royal as he, but somehow, they all seemed much more mature.  He was about to reveal to these Argive boys and Croesus standing in the archway just how useless Idas, son of Clymenus of Arcadia, really was.

"What you have there, Pandion, is part of a transcription of Euripides great play, _Medea_ ,” said Croesus once they’ve had enough of staring at each other. “You’ve all seen the performance last season at Dionysia, yes?” 

“Yes,” replied everyone except Idas. 

“As you may have heard, this one was not as well-received, but it gave us plenty of controversial subject matter. Medea is a fierce and passionate being. Yet she abides by her own code of honor, like a man. Tell me, young ones, do you see Medea acting with logic?” 

“I say no,” the boy sitting across from Idas said. “I mean, is it not obvious? She kills her own children, causing great woe to herself, simply to avenge Jason?” 

“Yes,” piped up the one next to him, “Jason hardly seemed concerned with their welfare prior to them dying in his sake. It took only that to elicit anything else other than self-interest.”

“But Medea knew that,” Pandion protested. He was the smallest, with large frog-eyes, teeth so crooked they appeared to be stretching his gums to capacity, and a soft voice. Yet the other two boys and Croesus immediately turned to him, prompting him to continue. 

“Her behavior presents as irrational to us, because we’re not seeing the situation through her eyes, with her mind.”

“Well, how could we?” the boy across from Idas challenged. “She is a woman. They see the world differently, Pandion.”

The boy was the eldest, probably around Harpalyke’s age, judging by the sparse hairs around his lips and chin. He seemed to use his age to gain authority over the younger boys, but Pandion still had the upper hand in the discussion.

“I’d say the play, with all its flaws, has given us a glimpse inside a woman’s head, wouldn’t you? She states her distaste at the duties women are expected to fulfill.”

“Yes, but she acts exactly as we’d expect a woman scorned to act,” said the elder, “Even worse. The slaughter of her children aside, she constantly accuses Jason of being immersed with passion toward his new wife despite him telling her more than once that the marriage is only to ascend his status. Give me that.”

Pandion passed him the leaf. Meanwhile, Idas’ muscles were threatening to launch him out of his seat and through the window. He still, after all this talk, hadn’t an idea what _Medea_ was about other than some crazy lady killing her kids, and as a result, he felt like an imbecile. 

“See here,” the other boy continued, pointing to a line of miniscule etchings. “ _Be well assured of this: 'twas not for the woman's sake I wedded the king's daughter, my present wife; but, as I have already told thee, I wished to insure thy safety and to be the father of royal sons bound by blood to my own children—a bulwark to our house._ If Medea was thinking with logic, she would concede that this is the best course of action for her family.”

“Jason has proven himself to be selfish and cowardly,” Pandion pointed out. “It is not far-fetched to propose he could be a liar as well. Regardless, he approached this in ill manner. Had he discussed with his wife the plan beforehand, perhaps she would’ve taken the news better and acted rationally. That is not to say, however, that she is irrational or out of her mind as so many critics have spoken of her. She provides a reason, rooted in honor, for the murder of her children.” 

“Alright, the children aside…” There was a bit of exasperation in the elder’s voice by now, but he quickly stifled it. “All throughout the play, Medea’s rage and jealousy directed at King Creon’s daughter permeates her speech and directs her course of action.” 

“Her intention was to hurt Jason.” 

“Yes, but in her fury and envy she failed to hear Jason’s reasoning for the marriage. Even after he stated it explicitly, Medea still accused him of being enamored with the girl.” 

From this, Idas was finally able to deduce the central plot of the play. His back straightened and some of the dread faded; he still couldn’t contribute but at least now he could follow along.

“What if he actually is enamored with her, though?” spoke up the boy seated next to Pandion for the first time. “What if, as Pandion hinted at before, he was lying and Medea knew it? She is clever, after all.”

Pandion nodded, biting his lip before speaking. “The Corinthian princess—many call her Glauke—does not appear in the play, yet we feel her presence through Medea’s hatred.” 

Idas’ throat was constricting and he felt very hot all of the sudden. This princess sounded very much like the one of Arcadia, not present but wreaking havoc just by existing, by being beautiful. Like Glauke, Harpalyke seemed to be an instrument played by the men around her. And Medea, like Epicaste, jealous, misunderstanding. The idea of some scholar molding his sordid family affair into a tragic play was sickening.

Croesus picked up on his inner turmoil and concluded the meeting, praising the boys for their arguments. “Remember, if you can find lines in the text to support it, it will stand up to scrutiny. Consider the text your armor.”

The trio embraced each other goodbye, not sparing Idas a glance, as if he was a sack of potatoes. Once they were guided out by a slave, Croesus approached him.

“I’m sure they will welcome your presence in the courtyard of Hesychius, Pandion’s father.” 

Idas shrugged. “Perhaps next time, master.” 

“Of course. Here, take this.” He set the papyrus on Idas’ lap. “Without examples from the text, it’s hard to hold up an argument, but that doesn’t mean you can’t form it from your experiences. Emotions are dangerous if not balanced by logic, but they, too, can inform us about a new situation we are faced with.” 

Idas must have worn a skeptical expression, for Croesus sat in Pandion’s seat and continued, “I know this sounds like women’s talk, but imagine a warrior treading new land, ready to fight. He knows not of any threats yet. None are visible, yet his heart beats faster and his muscles are tight. The churning of dread starts in his stomach. Sure, he could disregard all of it, since he doesn’t see anything amiss, but then what happens when an attack is unleashed upon him as soon as he lowers his defenses?

“Tell me, boy, in those initial moments, was his body telling him something his mind could not?” At Idas’ nod, he went on. “See, a man must listen to what his body says. It may not make sense at first, but that is where logic is a vital tool. When used in conjunction, the mind is sound and ready for all types of battles. They don’t always involve arrows and cannons, my boy.”

He stood and clapped Idas’ back. “Until next week.” By the time Idas managed to respond, the man was gone.

Letting out a breath, Idas examined the leaf in his hands. He could at least read the title: _Medea_. Already, he loathed this play due to the discomfort it brought about within him. According to Croesus, it was this discomfort he could build his logic upon. Again Idas wondered just how much the man knew about his family. 

He thought again of Harpalyke, of Epicaste’s rage at her. Really it was Clymenus she should target all of it, just like Jason should’ve been the target of Medea’s rage. The princesses were just those—young girls. For the little they were allowed to partake in, as Medea spoke of, they held immense power. 

Idas looked down at the leaf. Yes, he could definitely form an argument based on this play. However, he had to read the damn thing first and prove himself to the Argive boys. A battle in itself and as Croesus said, not one with arrows and cannons but his own mind, his will. 

*

Sometime during the cool-down, Harpalyke’s eyes snapped open and just like that, she was wide awake. The weight of Clymenus’ arm was interfering with her breathing. She rolled out from under it and sat up, yet her chest still felt heavy. She felt this enough recently to glean that it was some strong emotion overtaking her. Unfortunately, she hadn’t a clue which, as it had started up around her 16th birthday.

Outside, the sky was just a shade paler than blue-black—the sun would be arriving soon. Harpalyke wanted to see it, so without further hesitation, she rose from the bed and crept to the window.

Leaning her elbows on the edge, she tilted her face up, inhaling the light breeze. It lessened the weight in her chest but only temporarily. What could it be? She listed all the feelings she had on a regular basis. Not nearly as much as before Idas and Epicaste left. Since then, she hadn’t experienced much of anything. Additionally, part of reaching 16 was not feeling everything so _strongly_ all the time. Some were still intense, however, like this unknown chest pain. 

She found her eyes straying to the mountain path, just like last morning and the one before, though not nearly as early as today. They were searching for something and now with an odd, sudden clarity, she realized what it was: a chariot, specifically one crafted from the most skilled carpenters of Pylos. 

The voice of reason inside Harpalyke’s head told her that it was too late, Alastor had moved on, he was not coming back for her. But her heart was stubborn, forcing her eyes to search the horizon for the chariot. This is a mistake, it insisted.

Harpalyke turned around, leaning on the sill and gazing at Clymenus still deep asleep. He’d just turned 45, she’d heard him tell Erastos the farmer, and yet he was still so handsome and energetic, the strong king she knew. She could almost pretend he wasn’t her father and he didn’t rip her from Alastor, and this whole situation was normal. But he’d hit her again.

Her palm flattened against her hair, rubbing her sore scalp. He’d hurt her just like he’d hit Epicaste and Epicaste hit her. And they did not love each other. Soon Clymenus’ love for her would sour, if it hadn’t already. 

Tears blurred the brilliant azure sky looming over the mountain, flooding her arms resting on the skill. At last, she understood the weight in her chest. It was a mix of sorrow, grief, and loss all wrapped up in the pain of yearning. Alastor would not have hit her.

She had to believe that he would’ve loved her, that he was coming for her. She looked back to the mountain path, now clearly visible—and clearly empty—in the morning’s first rays of sunlight.

He has to be coming back, Harpalyke reassured her aching heart as she climbed under the sheet, keeping her back to Clymenus. Now the haunting question was, was she worthy of coming back for? The answer was even less certain. If she dwelled on that too long, her eyes filled with tears again. Mercifully, she fell asleep only a few minutes later and when she awakened, face stiff with dried tears, the king had already left.


End file.
